


El Corazón del Pirata

by adropofstarlight



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 17th Century, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Captive Romano, Crime, Dark Past, Drama, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pirate Spain, Romance, Romano's Filthy Vocabulary, Separations, Some Humor, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 65,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adropofstarlight/pseuds/adropofstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fate is once kind, twice cruel. And Captain Antonio Fernandez Carriedo does not have a heart, nor does he fall in love with his prisoners. But Lovino Vargas might just be the fuel to his flame - certainly there's more to him than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Expect the Unexpected

The day was still young, but the omens were unclear.

In fact, nothing else was clear at all, not even their location. They were somewhere in the south of Europe, that was all he knew. Probably  _el Mediterráneo_  by now. He could tell from the tightness of the air around him, the way the sun seemed to glare down upon the ocean, the calm and clear water rippling as they raced past.

South was good. South was safe. Few knew of them here, and those who did might not recognize them at first glance. And many from these countries, he had heard, were fairly wealthy. That was a point in their favor. After the past few days some luck was definitely in order.

If Fate had been kinder to them they wouldn't be here in the first place. At least, he liked to think it was Fate, since she always accepted the blame without any argument. Thanks to her a small victory had been theirs, but the English  _diablo_ always had tricks up his sleeve. He was the reason why they were fleeing now—no, not fleeing, simply taking an alternate route. However one looked at it, though, being anywhere within a hundred leagues of Spain was now completely out of the question. They had cruised too far and committed one too many blunders.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, captain of the  _Trinidad,_ thus had a problem.

It was a problem all new pirate captains had to face—how exactly to organize men who had, a few days since, still been his almost-equals. The recent loss to the English had cost the former captain his title, and his life. Antonio had taken his place fairly quickly, because he was accepted and friendly to the others. And because no one could see through the friendliness in his green eyes to the man within. He had helped remove the last captain in the quickest, most painless way possible. Now they were probably expecting him to kill half his men and recruit more as soon as they got ashore.

Effortless intimidation. A point in  _his_ favor, now, that was.

It would work if he played his cards right.

Antonio was one of those men who rarely, if ever, passed up opportunities. And the former captain's failure had been a golden one. Not a soul had expected him to directly challenge the captain's leadership, although he  _had_ been the quartermaster for quite a long while. Perhaps that was why they had chosen him, because Antonio knew better than anyone else how things went on aboard the  _Trinidad_ ; because he kept tempers even and spirits high; because he didn't cultivate resentment among the crew.

At least, he thought he didn't. From a captain's standpoint, the men below him were little more than a pack of snarling hounds. The trick was to keep them moving and distracted so they wouldn't sharpen their claws. But one false move and they would be at his heels, snapping to bring him down; and Antonio's was as precarious a position as any. There were always more plots afoot on this ship than he could count—that meant anything could happen in these first few days to depose him.

Antonio was smarter than he looked, however, and that was saying much. Nothing would catch him unawares if he could help it.

* * *

Late afternoon, and they were still sailing. But the sun was slowly beginning to set, which meant their time was short, and Antonio did not wish to attempt landing by nightfall. The dark provided cover, but the rocky coasts were never worth the risk.

He had half a mind to yell for Santiago, the navigator, when unusually soft footsteps sounded at his doorway. Sure enough, it was him, the ever ruffled-looking man with dark eyes and spectacles askew. He could pass for an unassuming scholar by most standards, but Antonio knew better from his days as quartermaster.

"Cap'n," said the short navigator, with a deferential almost-bow, what looked to be a map still rolled up in one hand. The captain beckoned him inside good-humoredly.

"Come in, come in. Did you find out where we are?"

"Nearing Italy, cap'n," Santiago answered. "My calculations say we're off the coast of Sicily."

Then all was well. They would have somewhere to land, at last. Not only that, but Italy was a rich place and they were very much in need of rich places after days of costly, uneventful sailing. Antonio was fairly sure the Italians had not been visited by Spanish pirates very much. He would make it his job, then, to reacquaint them with that experience.

"I believe I found where we can land, cap'n, I'll show you," Santiago suggested, interrupting his thoughts.

How nice, the navigator knew just what his captain wanted.

Antonio watched from nearby as he unrolled the map slowly, bringing him within view of a neatly drawn Italian peninsula. He could see the places the navigator was referring to, and in a glance took in the marked-off Sicilian coast. They had been sailing southwards through open ocean for too long, which accounted for days without seeing land. At least, that was what Santiago seemed to be saying.

But the details escaped the captain's attention, because the way Santiago was opening the parchment, slowly, while clutching the other end closed, gave him an ominous feeling. A sinister air clung to him as he talked. It was almost as if he was hiding something there, with his other hand...

Just as Antonio's warning instinct told him to step back, the map unraveled, and the familiar glint of metal set off a red alert in his mind, immediately confirming his suspicions. And then, suddenly, the navigator was lunging towards him, dagger in hand.

Antonio had not moved a moment too soon. The blade sliced through the air inches away, just penetrating the loose fabric of his sleeve, before Antonio knocked it out of the other man's grip and it clattered to the floor. A well-aimed kick with his boot rendered the navigator harmless, and as Santiago writhed in pain on the floor, Antonio held him down with one foot on his chest and the edge of a cutlass at his throat.

"You were saying?" he asked, with no trace of humor. "I believe we were talking about where we would... land."

Santiago choked and struggled still, giving no appreciable reply.

"... Really, I expected better of you, _mi amigo_." Antonio sighed. "Trying to kill your poor  _capitán_ on his third day? Who else is in on this?"

"N-no one," the navigator gasped.

The captain gave him a sad smile. "I hope so. I hate replacing people, but you've left me no other choice..."

The man's struggles only intensified as his eyes widened in horror. Evidently he remembered what had happened a few days prior.

"N-no...! Please, cap'n, spare me!  _Por favor_...! I won't do it again, I  _promise_ —"

The cutlass dug just a bit deeper into his neck, drawing blood.

"Would you now?" Antonio gave the lowest of chuckles. "We'll have to see then... some other time. Take him down to the hold!"

As if on cue, two of his crewmen stepped in to collect the new prisoner, even as he shouted and begged for mercy. Antonio had seen enough of this to know the routine. There never was any mercy to be given. Only the softhearted landlubbers were foolish enough for such forgiveness, and that was their loss. To forgive, on a pirate ship, was to admit inferiority, and in doing so accept certain death.

Antonio, for one, would not opt for it as long as he remained captain.

As for what would happen to Santiago...

The hold was never a pleasant place to be, especially on such a large ship as the  _Trinidad,_ but it was doubly true when seen from a prisoner's point of view. A few days of torture below decks in that damp, smelly, rat-infested enclosure and the man would spill everything, or die in the attempt. The results never varied. At any rate he would no longer be returning to the ship as before. Perhaps they would throw him overboard afterward, or abandon him on a deserted island; it was no concern of Antonio's.

The captain watched them go, then closed the cabin door and resumed his post at his window. One navigator short, and the possibility of more mutiny ahead. This would be more difficult than he had previously thought.

* * *

"Land ho! Land ho!"

The long-awaited cry roused the ship, and the silence reigning over the  _Trinidad_ was quickly broken. Crewmen sprang to action, directing the large vessel through the now shallow waters to the rocky coast, fighting against the setting sun. They dropped anchor just a short distance from a small beach, and Antonio sent several men ashore to scout about. It seemed Santiago had, at least, been telling the truth about where they were.

Antonio himself watched from the bow, taking in the new sights. So  _this_ was the Italy he had heard so many tales of. At the moment it didn't look like much except a field of sunbaked sand interspersed with rocks; in fact, very much like the beaches back home in Spain. But once they sailed northwards and reached the cities things would be different. The stories of Venice's gilded splendor had been with Antonio as long as he could remember. He had seen it for himself, after all, many years ago. And in just a few days some—or much—of that wealth could be  _his_.

Then sudden yelling shattered the quiet.

"Pirates!  _Pirates_! Run,  _sorella_! Don't fucking wait for me,  _go_!"

Italian. An Italian man yelling. Antonio could just understand what he was shouting. A girl's terrified scream sounded from off to his right, followed by the sound of a scuffle, and the captain attempted to catch a better look.

By the time he found a good vantage point, the scene was largely deserted. The girl who had screamed was nowhere in sight. But his men on the beach were clustered around someone, who, judging from his voice, was probably the Italian man. He was still putting up a hearty fight as they struggled to tie him up and load him into the boat, and it looked about as tough as lifting a sack of gold. Antonio suppressed a smile at that.

In any case, this was something new. Another prisoner added to their quota, which already included the ship's doctor, the cabin boys... but better than that—someone well-informed about Italy, which meant that this time they would actually have a guide to help them find their treasure.

Yes, Fate definitely was with them today. He was thankful for being wrong. Those English pirates could sink in a whirlpool for all he cared. He went back to his cabin and waited for his crew to deliver the prisoner.

It was only a matter of minutes before his men returned with their Italian cargo, although, Antonio observed sadly, the girl was not with them. Oh well. Men could be made to obey just as well as women, and Antonio was more aware of that fact than most.

"Well, now, what have we here?" he said jovially as the Italian was brought in and deposited none-too-gently on the floor. A pair of murderous-looking hazel eyes fixed upon him, and the man suddenly unleashed the worst verbal assault Antonio had ever heard from a captive.

In Italian.

"What the hell, you piece of shit!? Why the fuck am I here? You'd better let me go, you fucking pirate, or you'll fucking get it!"

Antonio burst out laughing.

It was some bravery this Italian had, to cross a pirate captain in this way. And in all Antonio's many years of raiding the high seas he had  _never, not once_ encountered a hostage quite like this one.

If it had been anyone else he might have killed them for such open defiance, but this prisoner was actually useful. And somehow all he wanted to do here was laugh. Laugh, he certainly did. Such a welcome feeling it was. It took him a long time to recover, and when he did he had to make a huge effort not to guffaw at the Italian's indignant face.

"A feisty one, I see!" Antonio exclaimed once he had regained control of himself. "You'll enjoy it here, then! Welcome!"

Now it was the Italian's turn to look shocked, and comically so. His mouth fell open as he gaped at Antonio with eyes the size of saucers.

"... How the  _fuck_ do you know Italian!?"

"That's a story for another time," Antonio said cheerfully, as though speaking to a small child. Indeed the Italian was small. And indeed he was having a fit of temper, just like a child. And—it was hard to deny—he was rather attractive too. Judging by appearances the Italian certainly wasn't from a poor family. His face looked soft and not at all thin, his now-red cheeks seemed to ask to be pinched. And he had an unruly strand of hair shaped like a curl. Antonio rather wanted to touch it.

"Anyway, I'm Antonio Fernández Carriedo, captain of the  _Trinidad_!" He introduced himself with a bow and a flourish. "What's  _your_  name,  _mi amigo_?"

"I'm not your fucking friend," snarled the Italian, as though he hadn't heard the 'captain' bit, struggling valiantly at his bonds. "And I'm not fucking telling you my name. Let. Me.  _Go._ "

Antonio had no intention of complying, of course. It was humorous, playing around with this man.

" _Lo siento,_  but I couldn't do that! You're Italian,  _sí_? We'll need you to help us find treasure!" he said in the happiest voice he could muster, which wasn't all that difficult given the situation. "And do tell me your name, or I'll have to call you Rotten-Mouth, and I'm sure that won't sound as nice as your real name!"

The Italian's face darkened in response. Success.

Oh, this was the best amusement he had had in years.

"... My  _name_ ," said the Italian through gritted teeth, "is  _Lovino._ Lovino fucking Vargas. Get it  _right._  And I'm  _not_ helping you steal from my own damn country."

Lovino Vargas. An uncommon name. And how very endearing, too. But he certainly  _was_  difficult to convince. Antonio would have to work on that before they reached Venice... there was time for that later, however.

For now, his primary concern was what to  _do_ with such a fiery captive as this one. Throwing him in the hold with Santiago would be too much of a waste, but letting him run around on deck would be equally disastrous, if not more.

Decisions, decisions...

The Italian glared at him, as though he'd like nothing more than to murder Antonio in his bed. The captain sighed inwardly. Having Lovino around would cause no end of problems, unless he thought of something soon. But judging from the way things had started out, whatever happened next was bound to be interesting.

And Antonio lived for interesting.


	2. The Captain Saves a Man

His first thought was  _Oh no, they fucking want my life._

His second thought was  _Oh no, they fucking want money._

His third was  _Oh_ fuck,  _they fucking want_ food.

And because he had such luck, the third was what he was now forced to act on.

So Lovino Vargas found himself in a godforsaken hellhole of a galley, surrounded by menacing kitchen utensils, even more menacing pirate supervision and, worst of all, food decomposing everywhere he looked.

In a word, it was horrendous.

This must be some sort of a joke. This must be some sort of nightmare, from which he could awaken if he just pinched himself hard enough. But the bruises they had given him still hurt noticeably and the shame of having been taken prisoner still stung strongly. He was not dreaming at all; he would not be returning to his  _sorella_  and  _fratello_  anytime soon, until he found some way to escape this damned pirate ship.

It didn't help that his first instinct was to grab a knife and leap out the window. That would be all very well and good if Lovino were several pounds lighter and had the willpower to attempt that acrobatic feat. But he was in plain view of a very burly, very inhuman-looking, very well-armed pirate standing guard at the doorway. The quartermaster, he thought. And then there was the cook—an incredibly busty, suntanned old woman they called "Abuela." She had immediately given up her apron and retired to the corner once Lovino had been introduced to the galley, and now she was watching him work from across the table while arranging the kitchen knives.

"Remember, no stealin' food,  _hombrecito_ ," she said lazily, leaning back in her chair and pulling out a silver-hilted dagger from the folds of her dress. "An' no poisonin'—but the poison's here if ye need it." She tapped the dagger blade with a crooked smile, observing him closely.

This certainly was a merry company Lovino had stumbled into.

Making sure to keep an eye on the now-dangerous old woman, he gulped and went shakily to the shelves, resolve drained. His eyes scanned the putrid ingredients. What exactly had they ordered him to cook again?

Oh yes. They expected him to make paella.  _Paella._ Paella was a Spanish food. He was Italian. Italians could make paella.

But where the fuck did they think they were, a gourmet  _restaurant?_

Lovino narrowly stopped himself from spearing a maggot with the kitchen knife, then did so anyway, earning a surprising bit of applause from Abuela.

"Becomin' one of us, are ye?" Her expression had become rather more welcoming, and she called to the man standing guard at the doorway. "Did ye see that, Eduardo? He's got good aim!"

"Just get 'im to make the damn grub," the man named Eduardo said tersely, stony-faced. "Got me stomach to think of." Lovino slowly turned away and resumed his duties.

The food must be why everyone was such a  _figlio di puttana_ —if this was what they called food. They must have been sailing for quite a while to have such fucked-up rations; Lovino thought he might vomit if he found yet another piece of ten-day-old meat swarming with insects. There was no way he could concoct  _anything_ edible from this mess of a kitchen. Which meant they would probably kill him for it.

At least the Vargas family wouldn't lose their daughter, since  _sorella_  had escaped... he was certain enough of that, or she would be tied up here like him, or even worse. He shuddered and pushed the unpleasant thoughts out of his mind. There was no denying that pirates were unscrupulous and immoral assholes of the lowest kind. And there was also no denying that Lovino Vargas hated them all with a burning passion. As any man in his right mind would if he had lost one too many loved ones to evil bastards like these. He always tried not to dwell on it, but to no avail.

The Vargas family had never been good at hiding their hatred. Feliciano, of course, was out of the question. Chiara did what any good  _sorella_  would—she fell to stabbing old clothes with her needles. If Nonno had still been here he would have set the mountains to shaking. Lovino Vargas, meanwhile, simply made use of his God-given instrument of expression—his mouth. In his short twenty-three years of life it had proven to be a fearsome weapon in the field of human relations. Mostly because he had trouble reining it in.

Sadly, though, it didn't seem to work on pirates. Especially that good-for-nothing pirate captain.

That was really some nerve he had had, to laugh in Lovino's face as if he were an idiot and then put him to work as if he was of no consequence. Anton... Antonio... whatever the fuck his name was. He didn't even act like a pirate captain, for the love of God. Who the  _hell_ did he think he was dealing with?

 _Fottutissimo pezzo di merda,_ Lovino thought murderously as he murdered more maggots. All of them were.

But, speak of the devil. No sooner had his mind strayed to that offending excuse for a captain than the man in question appeared in the doorway, eyes positively sparkling as he caught sight of Lovino. The Italian chose to interpret that look as "I'm going to kill you if you don't cook now," and decided he would have to put on a show.

"How's the cooking going,  _amigo_? _"_

Fuck. Fuck it all.

"... Good," he settled for answering, very much aware that all eyes were now fixed on him, even Abuela's.

"Only good...? Not  _fantástico_?" The captain looked facetiously disappointed—not a good sign. "Did you have trouble finding ingredients?"

How friendly of him to ask—evidently he had noticed the tabletop was still mostly empty except for a pile of dead maggots. Lovino could have made a living killing them.

" _Sì_ ," he gritted out. "I still need tomatoes."

The Spaniard's face lit up at the mention of that particular food. "Right over there,  _amigo_!" he said cheerfully—did he always address everyone as his friend?—and directed Lovino to a barrel in the corner. Sure enough, it was full of the blessed red fruit, surprisingly unspoiled; the mouthwatering aroma filled the galley the moment he lifted the lid.

"We got them from our last victory over those scurvy Englishmen!" the captain added, effectively ruining the good humor with his own. "Tomatoes are  _muy_   _deliciosos_ , don't you agree?"

Lovino did agree. He watched as Captain Antonio strode over to the barrel, speared an unsuspecting tomato with his cutlass and popped it into his mouth, humming slightly. The Italian was suddenly struck by how pleasant he looked, with his laughing green eyes and wide smiling mouth and slightly curly brown hair. He could have been an actor in a play, maybe the main character, in one of those love stories Lovino hated going to see but did anyway. There was something about him that didn't fit here, something in his speech, his manner. How had he ended up as a swashbuckling pirate captain, anyway? That smile of his probably hid all manner of things, but—

He looked too... too  _good_ to be one.

Lovino realized with a start exactly where his mind was heading, but it was already too late. No, no, it could not be. He was Lovino Vargas and Lovino fucking Vargas knew better than to have such thoughts, damn it! And he was going to escape this ship as soon as it made another landing in Italy, handsome pirates or not.

Then the captain winked at him.

Oh no. Oh  _no,_ he had not just done that. Not only dangerous but  _dangerously fucking flirtatious,_ to boot-! Lovino whipped back around to hide the traitorous warming of his face and started furiously chopping tomatoes.

This could not be happening. This could  _not_  be happening.

"What's wrong? Your face looks like a  _tomate, amigo_!" the cause of his misery spoke up oh-so-helpfully.

_Mio Dio, kill me now..._

Nothing was going his way today, nothing at all.

* * *

Antonio, meanwhile, found he was actually having the time of his life. His men truly had made a wise choice in capturing this funny little Italian. Not only could he cook, but he was also wildly receptive to the Spanish charm...! The  _Trinidad_ 's captain couldn't believe his luck. It wasn't as though he hadn't tried some things on his mates in the past, and perhaps a few women as well, but the former were all brawn and no brain, while the latter all fawned over him in the most ridiculous way possible. He had no need of them; they came and went like birds on an ocean breeze.

This Lovino was different, however, he could tell at first glance—he stuttered and blushed and reacted in the most delightful way, as though he  _didn't_ want attention. Oh, but that certainly did warrant attention. Antonio couldn't quite keep his eyes off him. Here was a new source of amusement, all for himself!

He strode up to the still-quivering Italian and peered over his shoulder at the paella still under construction. That meant getting right up close to the smaller man, but that was Antonio's intention, after all!

"Need some help with that,  _mi amigo_ ~? _"_  he asked in a low voice, right next to Lovino's ear, and was instantly rewarded by a heated blush from the Italian as he leapt away.

Ah, how adorable.

"Get the fuck away from me!" Lovino spluttered, dropping the knife in his haste. It seemed he'd once more reverted to his former offensive self. "Or I'm—I'm going to fucking hurt you!  _Bastardo_!"

It really was strange how Antonio felt no urge to kill him. Similar situations like these had sprung up often, in many variations, and he had frequently acted upon them without the slightest qualm. But he couldn't this time. This man was simply too... too... what was the word?

Oh yes.  _Interesting_.

" _Me,_ you say?" Antonio pretended to look surprised and hurt instead. "But I'm your  _capitán_! Why me?"

"Because you're an asshole and a pervert, you fucking stupid pirate."

" _¿Qué?_  I don't think your face agrees."

This was too amusing. Much too amusing. And the Italian's expression was such a reward.

"Y-you—"

He was reduced to random bursts of Italian, interspersed with swear words, eyes radiating murderous hate.

Antonio laughed.

Abuela laughed.

Even the ever-stoic Eduardo laughed.

Lovino still stood there in silent indignation, staring from one to the other open-mouthed, red-faced. For several minutes nothing else happened. They didn't stop laughing. He didn't stop fuming.

And then, suddenly, he bolted.

They knew something like this would happen, expected it. Prisoners always tried to escape, even if it was useless. Maybe no one had told Lovino the ship had already set sail. What a pity.

Antonio was the first to see, but Abuela reacted even faster, as was her wont, dangerous woman that she was. Her eyes glinted with the thrill of a new opportunity, reminding Antonio of something old and feral, with killer instincts.

"Can't ever run from us,  _hombrecito_! _"_  she called.

And before Antonio could stop her, she reached for her dagger, flinging it at the retreating man in one fluid motion.

" _No_!"

Antonio only faintly recognized the voice as his own.

Everything else after that seemed to happen in slow motion. He found himself moving, diving forward to push the Italian out of harm's way. A sharp pain bloomed in Antonio's upper arm and then they both hit the ground with a thud, Lovino letting out a small grunt. The Italian man's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the silver-handled dagger embedded in Antonio's arm.

"Holy mother of fuck..."

Antonio stared down at him.

"What?"

"... She said it was  _poison._ "

Loud thumps on the wooden floorboards announced Abuela's approach. In the next moment she was before them, standing over them, quiet. But her eyes showed no trace of sympathy, and the reality hit Antonio as his heart sank a little lower.

"You too," he whispered.

"Ye finally realized it, cap'n," the old woman chuckled, glancing down at the dagger. "What a shame. Givin' yer life to save a filthy little prisoner... Always knew ye were too soft-hearted for the job. Could've let someone else take it instead..." Her face hardened slightly, and when she spoke again her voice was cold with a touch of mockery. "Ye shoulda been kinder to my Santiago,  _cap'n_ , but ye killed him. Ain't forgivin' ye now, no sir."

Antonio gritted his teeth, pulling the dagger out.

"I didn't kill him."

"Oh, but ye  _did_ , cap'n. Don't lie to me."

Three things happened at once. Abuela drew forth another knife, preparing to finish him—and possibly Lovino—off. Antonio braced himself and raised the dagger, poised to throw. Then another blade zipped from out of nowhere—Eduardo's. It buried deep into Abuela's chest and she blinked down at it. Silence.

She stood swaying for a moment, then smiled around at all of them.

"Today, I be learnin' one thing. There be a curse on this ship, a curse of blood. The day will come when ye all realize what yer doin'. I had enough. I be waitin' from up high with me son, and that day we'll be a-laughin'. Ye'll see..."

Her face still peaceful, she closed her eyes and slid to the floor.

Eduardo made his way over to her body with quick strides and stooped to examine her.

"She's dead," he announced after a minute, then looked over to where Antonio and Lovino were. "All right, Cap'n?"

" _Sí_ ," answered Antonio. But he glanced down at himself and realized he was bleeding all over the Italian man beneath him. Lovino simply stared up at him in utter shock. Was that his mouth moving to say something? What was it he had been telling Antonio before?

Oh.

Poison.

It was his last thought before everything went black.

 


	3. An Absence of Walls

It had been one full day since the 'incident' in the galley, which had been cleaned up and hidden away as quickly as possible. No open talk was made of the old woman who had suddenly vanished from the ship, and she was quickly forgotten as each pirate came to his own conclusions on the matter—rumors, short-lived, would only spread for a time. But it was difficult to rid such memories from the minds of three men: one who had witnessed it, one who had ended it, and one who was probably fighting for his life at this very moment.

Presently, the aforementioned witness was sitting outside the galley, drained and sleepless after a night spent beautifying the kitchen floors, and also from nearly constant thoughts of the third man. He had learned he would be forced to work whether he liked it or not; but one would think they might actually _allow_  him to see the captain just once, since they mattered to each other now.

At least that was what Lovino wanted to think. It was probably one-sided anyway.

The sound of loud boots hitting the newly cleaned floor caught his attention and he glanced up wearily. Then he hurriedly jumped to his feet. It was true that he was none too fond of Eduardo, and the feeling might possibly be mutual, but he was the only one who had any sort of information right now.

The words tumbled out of Lovino's mouth before he could stop them.

"Is... is he going to be all right?"

Eduardo paused and looked at him.

"They gave the antidote."

Lovino took a heavy breath.

"And? ...Did it  _work_?"

Eduardo shrugged.

"Maybe, maybe not."

The Italian narrowed his eyes defiantly at the Spanish quartermaster.

He was  _not_ worried, damn it. There was absolutely nothing to dwell on, nothing at all. The pirate captain was going to recover and it was no concern of Lovino's, or so he told himself.

But of course it was his concern. It mattered very much, for reasons he would rather not think about.

"What the  _fuck_ do you mean by that?"

"I mean what I mean."

Eduardo whistled a strange tune and glanced off in the opposite direction, so that Lovino's scathing glare went virtually unnoticed. The Italian redoubled his efforts to catch the large pirate's attention but ended up venting his anger instead.

"Well, you know what,  _bastardo_ , that doesn't count for  _shit._ Why can't you even give me a straight fucking answer!? Not even a damn 'yes' or 'no'. And he's your fucking  _captain._ What are you even trying to—ow!"

He yelped in pain as Eduardo grabbed his arm and roughly hauled him forward.

"Ye care about him, go see him."

Lovino spluttered, face turning red as he rubbed his aching arm.

"The fuck—I-I don't even fucking c-ca—"

He was silenced by a stern look from the expressionless pirate.

"I'll not have a scurvy little prisoner foulin' the air with his smart mouth. I been kind to ye already. An' don't lie to me, ye do care. So ye find him, or I send ye below decks. There be lots o' space down there..."

Lovino couldn't even tell him he wasn't allowed at all near the captain's quarters—he had already gotten up and run, with a none-too-friendly push from Eduardo. He could no longer ignore that inner voice screaming for him to visit Carriedo. And it didn't help that his heart was racing—why the fuck was it racing?—as he pondered what exactly to do when he saw the captain.

Should he throw himself into the man's arms and thank him over and over for saving him? Well fuck, that might sound nice—cough, what prisoners were probably expected to do—but Carriedo was  _hurt_ and—fuck it, there had to be another way. Brush him off and act like he didn't care? No, not even Lovino in his most hard-hearted state would do that, and at the moment he was feeling perfectly sane and unwilling to accept an early death.

Unwanted thoughts still plagued him, however.

Why the fuck had Carriedo saved him, anyway? He could have just stood back and watched Lovino meet his end by a poisoned dagger, but instead he had  _pushed him away_ and  _taken the hit._  That was not something pirate captains were supposed to do! Heartless scoundrels never moved their asses to save their own, let alone a lowly, unimportant  _prisoner._  Those pirates might claim they needed him to help them find treasure, and Lovino might know he was worth much more than any of them would dare to believe, but the bitter truth was that, all things considered, his life really didn't matter much on this ship.

And yet Carriedo had done the unthinkable. In that one moment, driven by some unknown motive, he had thrown all semblance of status quo out the window. There was only one reason for this that Lovino could think of, and that was the one reason he could not fucking accept.

Pirates never fucking cared about anyone.

Never. No fucking way in hell.

And prisoners did not give a single crap about their captors either.

Except Lovino Vargas.

... Fucking Spanish bastard, already messing with his damn mind.

Lovino allowed himself a large sigh as he neared the captain's quarters, and tried in vain to convince himself he was not nervous. Sure, this sort of thing didn't happen on a daily basis, but Lovino was Lovino and he found he really had no other choice. It was just his luck after all, he thought woefully to himself as he walked along.

Oh  _God_ , he hoped that dratted captain was still alive, because he, Lovino Vargas, couldn't possibly live without Carriedo.

No, that was  _not_ a fucking declaration of love.

It was the goddamn  _truth._

Surprisingly, the men standing guard in front now moved aside to let him pass, grudgingly but almost respectfully. He must have risen in status since the incident, or maybe he was now assumed to be in Carriedo's favor, or both—although judging by the unfriendly aura radiating from those pirates, it was not something he should be proud of. Lovino could hear voices from inside, one of them a familiar Spanish accent. Carriedo was all right, then.

Tentatively, Lovino took a step inside and was immediately greeted by a cheerful set of green eyes, belonging to a certain man sitting up in bed. Oh hell, the Spaniard most definitely  _was_  better. It was clear he had been in the middle of a merry argument with the ship's doctor—over whether he should further rest, no less!—but it ended the moment Lovino entered the room. That was when Carriedo brightened, shooed the doctor away like some unwanted fly, and turned his full attention to the Italian. He actually looked quite himself aside from a little paleness and a bandaged arm. Lovino tried desperately not to note his lack of upper-body covering, and failed miserably.

"So you finally came to visit!" Carriedo exclaimed, favoring him with a smile. His brow furrowed the slightest bit, however. "I was thinking about you," he said rather suddenly.

Lovino choked.

"But, you're all right, so that's a good thing," the pirate rambled on, as if nothing was the matter at all. He flashed a most uncaptainly grin and beckoned Lovino closer. "Have a seat! I know you came to tell me something... important,  _sí?"_  That was not a playful eyebrow raise, because Lovino wasn't looking; he was doing as he was told, sitting his ass down in a hard wooden chair.

"I... I guess," he said, not very convincingly. Dear Lord, how the fuck did one go about expressing thanks? The last time he had done so was... oh, about thirteen years ago. Give or take ten more.

Carriedo was peering closely at him with those unavoidable, inquisitive emerald eyes.

" _Sí_?"

Just a simple thank-you. It shouldn't be that hard at all, unless one was a grumpy Italian named Lovino Vargas.

He took a deep breath and the words came out in a rush.

"I... UhthankyouforsavingmeI'mreallyfuckinggrateful."

Fuck yes, that was the way to do it. Short and simple and to the point. Someone would have to award him a chest of gold for this later, even if he already had hundreds back home. Or freedom, that sounded rather appealing too.

_Without_  a certain pirate giving him a wonderfully confused look, as though none of Lovino's thanks had even made it halfway to his ears.

"...  _Lo siento,_  I didn't hear that... Say it slower, _por favor_?"

Lovino suddenly felt like falling off the edge of the earth and never appearing again.

_Slowly._

_Say it_ slowly.

S-l-o-w-l-y.

"I... I th-thank you for fucking saving me, it means a whole fucking lot, okay!? There! You fucking heard it now!"

He glanced up to find Carriedo laughing.

_Laughing._

Loudly.

And at  _him,_ Lovino Vargas.

"Ahahahah— _lo siento, mi amigo,_  but your  _face_ , it was  _muy lindo_  and I just had to! And you said it twice, so that makes it doubly special~! Don't worry about it, Lovi, it was my duty after all!"

Ugh.

Just when he'd actually begun to  _start_ to kind of like that asshole of a captain...

No! Pirates were never meant to be liked, damn it.

"Sh-shut the fuck up!" Lovino shouted indignantly, quite forgetting for a moment who he was talking to. "And don't fucking call me Lovi or—or I'll—"

"Or you'll what~?" Carriedo asked sweetly, making full use of his—cough—alluring Spanish accent. This was  _not_ the sort of conversation that normally took place between captain and prisoner. In fact, conversations were not supposed to exist at all! And if things came to that Lovino wouldn't even be here—he'd be resting at home in his beautiful Italian villa, making small talk with his family and planning more getaways... Nevertheless the Italian felt his face warm again, followed by alarm bells clanging in his head.

"...N-nothing, asshole."

"All right then, Lovi~!"

"Fuck you."

"Hopefully soon, hm?"

Damn him to hell, Carriedo really  _was_  having fun with this, wasn't he? And oh God, oh  _God_ there was that damned wink again, that ridiculously attractive self-assured smile and that fucking... body...

A part of Lovino's mind screamed and died.

Oh hell no.

_Hell. No._

That was the captain and he... he was still the prisoner here.

No.

"I-I'm leaving now," he announced in a not-shaky voice as he stood up, determined to be the more mature man and leave before things could get any worse. "I... still need to make the damn paella." Forgetting what had happened in the kitchen a few hours prior still required effort, however.

Evidently Carriedo was having a similar problem. His face had disappointingly lost some of its luster, but as Lovino turned to leave he grabbed hold of the Italian's hand.

"Lovino."

Cue small heart attack.

"You'll... be coming back,  _sí_?"

The pirate actually had the gall to look  _hopeful_. But not only that... there was something else in his eyes, something almost quiet and pleading, hidden in the very back of that forest-green gaze.

Carriedo really did mean what he was saying, then.

Lovino quickly looked away and gave a long, loud sigh, knowing he had absolutely no choice in the matter after all.

"Well of-fucking-course I'm coming back." Dear Lord, he had to clean his mouth, or one day he might meet his end by colorful language. "...I'm making you food, aren't I?"

Carriedo's face immediately lit up again and he squeezed Lovino's hand warmly (no, that did not feel good). "Then I'll be waiting~! You'll make it  _delicioso,_ just for me?"

Oh, this  _man._  Lovino couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes.

" _Sì, sì_ , I will. J-just... let go of me. I'll be back."

And with that he pulled away his hand, turned swiftly and made his way back out the door. He was just quick enough to be out of earshot of the Captain's next words.

" _Tú eres extraño... pero me caes bien_."

* * *

An open book, that was it. This Lovino Vargas was an open book and Antonio could read almost every single emotion that flitted across his face—perhaps, he dared say, even his thoughts. The moment the Italian had entered the room Antonio had discerned his fear and nervousness—those two were the easiest to sense, as he had learned from years of hard experience. And then there was the Italian's obvious fascination with Antonio's body, which was flattering, to say the least. He was a most interesting creature, indeed.

And Antonio had to admit he rather liked him, in a purely pirate-captain sort of way. What a refreshing change from the cruel, hardened, scheming faces of those he called his mates. Here was someone who actually knew how to  _feel_ , someone whom he could tease and laugh at... genuinely. Those were human instincts, to be sure, but they were instincts Antonio had laid to rest many years ago. And along came this little Italian, bringing them all back in one fell swoop.

What a strangely welcome feeling, he mused to himself as the door to his cabin swung open.

In walked the Italian with a hot, steaming plate on a wooden tray. The expression on his face was one of carefully arranged displeasure, but it was easy to see through anyway. He averted his eyes as soon as he caught Antonio staring at him.

"... I'm back...  _Capitano_."

Oh, he had not just addressed Antonio as his captain... in Italian! The way he said it was irresistible, simply irresistible. The Capitano rewarded Lovino with his brightest grin and bade him come forward.

"About time,  _mi amigo_!" Even if Lovino wasn't one to make small talk, Antonio could always compensate for his silence. "You don't know how starving I am right now... must have been the medicine... but that smells  _fantástico_ , I can't wait to eat it!"

He thought he caught an eye roll at his enthusiasm. "Like hell it doesn't. We Italians are always the best cooks, hands down."

Well, it was nice to know he had garnered some sort of reaction from Lovino. Antonio made sure to wink at him before taking a bite of the paella. And—yes, there was the blush he had been waiting for!

" _Muy delicioso_ ," the Spaniard said appreciatively, and meant it.

Lovino still scowled at him, however, as though Antonio's happy eating vexed him terribly. With a jolt the pirate realized his little prisoner must be hungry, and did the most logical thing under the circumstances. He handed over the spoon.

"Here, have some too!"

The look Lovino gave him was an are-you-fucking-crazy kind of look, as to why he would even _suggest_ the idea of sharing food, but all the Spaniard saw was a man gaping at him. Antonio sighed—some people just couldn't recognize a blessing when they saw one—and took the opportunity to insert a spoonful of paella into the Italian's still-open mouth. The reaction was instantaneous: Lovino made a loud noise and nearly choked on his food, unbalancing himself in his chair.

"Wh-what the fuck was that!?" he shouted indignantly after he had (thankfully) swallowed the paella. Antonio gave him a questioning look.

"Did you not like it? You made it, after all!"

"F-fuck you—c-could have—gotten—another damn  _spoon_ —"

Oh, so it was only  _that_!

Antonio laughed merrily. "Why, is it a problem? It saves time though."

Lovino glared at him, red-faced and dangerous-looking.

"Y-you fucking b-bastard, the hell are you planning!?"

"Nothing! We eat like this all the time—"

"No fucking way."

"—And consider this a privilege, your  _capitán_ is actually sharing food with you!"

"Sh-shut up. I don't fucking want it."

"... Really? All right then, I'll eat it all myself~!"

And Antonio proceeded to do so with the utmost relish, eyeing the irked Italian the whole while. Two could play at this game of being difficult, after all, and Antonio always won at his games. Always.

He had plowed halfway through the food when he heard a loud grumble from a nearby stomach.

A few seconds passed, and then Lovino let out a supremely irritated grunt.

" _Ah_ , what wonderfully  _delicioso_ food, I could eat this forever!" Antonio sighed dramatically, with an expression of pure contentment on his face.

Lovino made an even louder displeased noise.

"It tastes so good, almost like  _heaven_ —"

"F-fucking stop it, you ass! I want my damn food!"

Antonio beamed at him. "Oh, but you must watch your mouth around your  _capitán_ —and don't forget to say 'please', Lovi~!"

"D-don't fucking call me—"

"Just one minute before I finish this up!" sang Antonio.

Lovino's murderous-looking glare was worth it all.

"... C-could I... have some of that fu- _food_?" He looked as pained as though he had lost a finger. "... P- _please_?"

Antonio laughed and patted him on the back with his good arm. "See, that wasn't too hard now, was it? Good boy~! You can have all the rest, Lovi!"

The Italian needed no other prompting, and Antonio watched in vicarious pleasure as the paella quickly vanished. Really, but it was so difficult not to like and trust this man, even if they had only just met and had yet to know each other. He was almost familiar, in a way. Rather like...

No.

That one was gone, long gone. There was no hope of ever seeing him again.

He had to stop it.

"What the fuck are you staring at...?" Lovino growled bad-temperedly out of nowhere. Antonio realized he'd been studying the other man's features a bit too long, and gave him a winning smile instead.

"Oh, nothing! I simply wanted to talk."

He thought his voice had been lighthearted enough, but Lovino gave him a look. It was one of those disbelieving glances that meant he had seen through the act. Antonio struggled to keep the façade for a while, tried to clear his thoughts, but felt his mind drift back to the events of the past day. And putting  _those_ aside was utterly impossible.

He sighed and gave up.

"... You remember that woman who... died, don't you?"

He half-regretted his suddenness; Lovino winced and looked as though he might lose his stomach's contents.

"Of... of course I fucking remember. What about her...?" The Italian's voice rang with caution.

"Well..." Antonio paused. "She was here because she had a son. He joined us. His name was Santiago, and he was the navigator on this ship."

_Was._

The shift in Lovino's eyes meant he had picked up on the subtle hint.

"—But why the hell are you telling me this?"

Antonio shrugged.

"You're the only one who'll listen."

" _Me_!? But I'm just—I mean—even Eduardo—"

Antonio shook his head and the Italian fell silent.

"Eduardo,  _sí._.. there are many things I could trust him with, but not this. He is different from me, and he does not stand for weakness." Lovino nodded slowly. "You, though..."

He found he didn't know what to say. That was a first—Antonio, captain of the  _Trinidad_ , was always prepared, always knew what to do in the best or worst of times. But then again he had never encountered something like this, some _one_ like this. Lovino Vargas was his prisoner and yet not his prisoner, his would-be friend and yet not his friend. Nothing was the way it seemed.

It was complicated.

"You..." Antonio trailed off and shrugged. "You'll listen,  _sí?_  I know you won't tell anyone."

After a long silence, the Italian nodded.

"Good." The pirate sighed. "Anyway... her son. Santiago. He betrayed me first, tried to kill me, and so I... punished him. He confessed, said it was his mother. I didn't believe it. Then they told me he... committed suicide, and he was replaced. And  _she..._ " He gritted his teeth, unwilling to repeat her name. "You saw what happened. It was her too, all along."

Lovino was still silent but his eyes were wide and shocked.

"... I didn't want things to be this way. I only became captain a few days ago and they're all turning against me now. But it wasn't—wasn't  _like_ that before. When I was still quartermaster... she would save me food, talk to me. She was almost like... a mother."

He took a deep breath to keep his voice steady.

"And you know what's strange—I'm the only one who remembers. She and everyone else, they treat it like nothing, and they move on and keep hurting people. But it meant something to me, and I..." He stopped short, realizing how many of his innermost thoughts he had spilled out. A little further, and he might even have gotten  _there_ , talked about  _him_ , that one man who...

Antonio summoned his willpower and pushed away the memories before they could resurface. It would not do for a pirate captain to lose it, not in front of his captive.

He smiled weakly at the Italian.

"I'm sorry."

Lovino reached out and took his hand.


	4. Suspension of Disbelief

Morning found Antonio rather quickly, as he had passed a long and fitful night without much sleep. The brilliant sunlight streaming into the room washed over his skin, threw a spark into his eyes and brightened his spirits temporarily, but they fell somewhat as he realized he was alone. Again.

At least no one had attempted to kill him in his sleep; the rebellions seemed to have died down—for now.

He wondered where Lovino was at this early hour.

Not that it was his place to worry, but... it  _was_  kind of his place to worry.

He'd saved the man, hadn't he? True, there hadn't been much thought on Antonio's part—no conscious decision had been necessary. Action had been needed, he had acted, and it had turned out to be the right thing to do after all. Perhaps his human instincts truly were still intact, however unlikely that might be. In any case it only made sense to remain loyal and protect Lovino to the end, did it not?

But what that actually meant for the two of them, he did not know.

Strange, really, how that little Italian had already become a part of his waking thoughts. Days ago Antonio would never have dreamed of events taking such a turn—and yet, how the tide had turned since his and Lovino's paths had crossed. Had it not been for yesterday Antonio might simply have labeled him as another of those landlubbers—albeit one with an adorable face and foul mouth—but this same little landlubber had a heart, and he had, impossibly, managed to comfort Antonio.

There had been nothing said the previous afternoon, nothing that could have been said, after Antonio, out of need, had let slip so much. Suddenly their roles had been reversed: Antonio had no longer been the pirate captain but simply a vulnerable, burdened man; Lovino had become not a prisoner but his equal, his confidant. And he had quietly but surely made certain, with that look in his eyes and the touch of his hand, that he had understood. He had sympathized.

He had...  _cared_.

It was the most anyone had done for Antonio in a long time.

And something else that he could no longer ignore: there was a connection. A most improbable connection, given the short time since they had met. But it was there. He could  _feel_ it whenever he so much as glanced at the Italian. And from what he could tell Lovino probably did too.

But what  _was_  this? Certainly it couldn't be anything more than friendliness, because that was already pushing it. He knew a time when he had been kind and open—perhaps he still had it in him now—but what difference did it make when he had to lead a ship full of cold-hearted, merciless men? And when Lovino constituted the very lowest of them all...

The pirate sighed and swung his legs over the mattress, forcing himself to get up without the help of his wounded arm. In his experience such thoughts were meant to be dwelt on only briefly, if at all, and then confined to the safety of darkness and solitude. Pondering too much over them led to sentimentality, and then... what else?

He couldn't deal with this, not now.

Instead Antonio focused his energies on finding another shirt to replace the one ruined from the galley incident, which he did not care to remember. The late captain, rest his soul, had truly been one for appearances and left behind a veritable treasure trove of clothes to choose from. All Antonio had to do was not think about the grisly end the other man had met at his hands and things would be fine, guilt-free.

He truly was living the life of a pirate captain.

The weather was much too hot to allow for a concealing doublet, so Antonio had to settle for a shirt with longer sleeves to hide the bandage. The less infirmity one showed, the better. But he had never realized how much he'd depended on his left arm until this moment—even something as simple as putting on clothes became a chore with only one hand. What an embarrassment; he might just have to employ a servant of some sort, simply to  _help him put on his clothes._

It was hard to pull his thoughts away from a certain Italian who might be up for the job. Already he could imagine the entire sequence of Lovino's sure to be endearing reaction.

First would come the choking, and staring, and "What the fuck, you perverted asshole!" and then the enticing "Shut the fuck up, or I'll hurt you!" – followed by a characteristically Lovino-like glare and the blush that meant he would go along with it anyway. Really, it  _would_  be nice to have him take off Antonio's shirt sometime—

 _No! Not right now,_  the voice inside his head shouted indignantly, and the pleasant thoughts slowly faded. He let the smooth silk envelop his arm and then the rest of his upper body. Dios, he had to stop thinking of Lovino at the most inappropriate times. His mind was much too restless this morning to be trusted about anything. This was not how a pirate captain was meant to act.

Hiding everything under a mask of calm, Antonio slowly made his way to the mess deck, barely acknowledging the other pirates who passed by. There were surprisingly few men about this morning. Most of them must have dropped their duties for breakfast—rather odd, considering that the _Trinidad_ 's food was barely worthy of thought, much less taste. Unless, of course...

Antonio's hunch was confirmed as he neared the entrance to the mess hall and caught a whiff of the most delicious aroma he had yet encountered. There could only be one explanation for this, and that explanation was probably in the galley. Dishing out heavenly Italian food.

No wonder why breakfast had taken such a high priority today, he thought as he navigated the rows of crowded, irregularly placed tables, following his nose to the galley. Everywhere around him he found small talk, smiles, and laughter, all normally rare commodities, being exchanged today like they had never been absent. If one were to block out the coarse mannerisms, rough accents and the rather unsavory demeanors, the scene might have looked something akin to a boisterous family reunion or other noisy gathering. It was a real sight to see, fascinating in every way. Lovino must have worked some sort of magic into his cooking; nothing like this had ever happened before.

Passing by a rather pleased-looking Eduardo, Antonio stepped into the galley and glanced around very quickly. Sure enough, there stood the little Italian in a corner, busily tending to something simmering in a small pot over the stove. His back was turned to Antonio, but something about his posture told the Spaniard he was in rather high spirits this morning.

Antonio tried to clear his throat, but the loud grumbling of his stomach made as good an announcement as any.

Lovino turned so quickly he nearly tripped and almost dropped his ladle. Upon seeing Antonio, his mouth dropped open in an O shape as his face slowly turned a tomato red.

"Wh-what are  _you_  doing here!?"

The Spaniard couldn't help a grin.

"Me? Why, I'm here for food!"

"...Oh." Lovino very cautiously averted his eyes and gestured to the pot in the corner. "I was... going to make pasta and bring it to you, but  _they_  kept interrupting." It must have been the pirates—even now there were still men outside shouting cheerfully for second (and third, and fourth) helpings.

But the captain was here now and so he would come first.

"Well, you don't need to! I'll just stay here,  _sí_?" Antonio gave him the most genuine smile he could muster and sat himself down at the kitchen table. Just being here with the Italian did wonders for his mood—although his stomach still needed sustenance. "Hurry up, though, or I might starve to death over here and you wouldn't want that, would you~?"

The flirtatious edge to his voice had not gone unnoticed. "Sh-shut it," Lovino grumbled, retreating to his cook's corner, and Antonio observed with some satisfaction that his ears had turned red. The silence that fell afterwards was bearable, almost comfortable; it wasn't much of a silence anyway, given the continuous flickering of the flames in the makeshift oven and the raucous shouting from beyond. Antonio watched him quietly for a while until anticipation and hunger finally got the better of him.

"Hey, Lovi!" he called. The Italian bristled.

"Don't call me that. What?"

"Are you done yet?"

"No-"

"No?"

" _No_!"

"You're taking a  _really long time, mi amigo_!"

"I-I said  _not yet_! Just wait a little more!"

"I've been waiting for  _hours!"_

"You have not! Just be patient, damn it!"

"My stomach isn't listening!"

"Then tell it to listen!"

Antonio groaned and almost flopped over on the table. "You're killing your poor  _capitán_  here, Lovi..."

"I—wow, fuck, don't  _pass out_ on me! Here!"

The heavenly scent of tomatoes hit Antonio's nose just in time and he decided he wouldn't black out after all. Taking a huge, appreciative whiff of the pasta he swore the smell alone was returning strength to his poor emaciated limbs. Lovino just looked at him fawning over the food as though he were out of his mind.

"You're weird, you know that?"

Yes, Antonio was. Sadly, Lovino probably didn't understand. No one ever had food like this on a pirate ship, especially during a long voyage—anything remotely resembling gourmet (Italian) food had to be sent from the heavens themselves. And as for the cooks... well... they were really something, as Antonio could tell.

"You can  _eat_  it, you know," huffed the Italian disdainfully.

"I'm going to!" Then Antonio remembered his legendary captainly generosity just in time. "Want to share?"

" _No._ " Apparently Lovino had learned his lesson well; he vanished from Antonio's line of sight and reappeared soon after with his own plate—and spoon—before digging in. "Holy  _shit,_  you eat fast," he observed sagely from the other side of the table, watching as Antonio's pasta disappeared within a matter of minutes. The pirate responded with a cheerful grin and a loud belch that earned him a disgusted look from the irritated Italian.

"I'm good at being fast...~"

"Th-the  _fuck_ are you saying!?" Lovino's face had suddenly turned red as the tomato sauce on his pasta, and Antonio had to convince himself there was a difference. "You made me the cook, so this is _my_ kitchen and you c-can't flirt here, damn you!"

"Oh?" Antonio raised an eyebrow. Ah, here came the feistiness! "But elsewhere we can,  _sí_ ~?"

" _No._ "

All right, so Lovino was actually serious today. How disappointing, since that ruined all of Antonio's plans for fun, but he would give the poor overworked man a rest. Besides, he had other things in mind besides making Italians blush, although he had to admit that was quite the entertainment, really.

"Hm... you're very...  _proper_ ," Antonio remarked, leaning over from his side of the table without warning. The Italian quickly backed away. "Mind... telling me about yourself?"

Lovino made a disbelieving sound, looking as though he'd like to get up and flee instead.

"Wh-why?"

"Oh, I just want to know~!"

"What makes you think I would fucking tell you anyway?"

Antonio shrugged, keeping his voice deceptively lighthearted. "I tell you things too."

He felt a little guilty at the look on the Italian's face. This was simply a bargain; he hadn't intended to stir up awkwardness by mentioning yesterday's little talk. But then again he really did want to know something more about Lovino. Pirate wisdom dictated it a necessity, since it was always useful to find out where one's prisoners came from if the need arose for ransom. Antonio had no intention of doing  _that,_  however.

He watched as the Italian tensed, flushed and paled in succession, and finally opened his mouth without saying a word.

"Well...?"

As if on cue, Lovino closed his mouth again. "...I already told you."

He had? Antonio had to rack his brain for an answer.

"I don't remember."

"You're forgetful as fuck," said Lovino matter-of-factly.

"... No, you really didn't tell me anything. Who are you?"

"Why are you so interested?" the Italian retorted.

Pause. Antonio thought again, searching for the right words.

"Because you're interesting."

And just like that Lovino was turning red again.

 _Dios_ , but judging by appearances, he truly must not receive attention very often. Antonio found that hard to believe—how could anyone  _not_ notice a swearing, stuttering, blushing little Italian with a tendency toward self-consciousness and a flair for cooking?

"No. I'm not." Little did Antonio know that Lovino was lying through his teeth. "I'm just a stupid asshole who was dumb and slow enough to get kidnapped by nasty pirates, and that's the only reason I'm here."

Ouch.

Antonio decided to evade that barb.

"C'mon, you know that's not true—answer my question,  _mi amigo!_  You're from Italy, I'm from Italy! Couldn't we get to know each other—"

"Wait."

" _Sí_?"

Lovino was staring at him with an incredulous look.

"You... you said you were from Italy...?"

Ah, he had let too much slip there.

But Antonio had thought it was obvious enough. Lovino was bound to have noticed his lack of coarse pirate speech sooner or later, anyway. Antonio might have spent thirteen years at sea robbing unsuspecting ships with his fellow mates, but he had never managed (or even tried) to pick up their accent. Pirates, prisoners, and foes alike always seemed to prefer his Spanish inflection—except for a certain  _estúpido_ Englishman, but that was beside the point.

" _Sí,_  I am..." he replied cautiously after a moment. "Does that mean you are not?"

"No, no." Lovino shook his head, brows suddenly furrowed as though he were trying to recall something. "I-I just..."

"What?"

"...Never mind."

It was Antonio's turn to frown then. "Is there something I should know about?"

"N-no..."

Antonio's gaze fixed on him, but Lovino glanced away instead, fidgeting awkwardly in his seat. A short, tense silence fell as neither moved to elaborate upon the question. When a few moments had passed and Antonio had still received no reply, the pirate sighed and decided to let it go temporarily. There was always time to find out later.

"Well, I'll be going now," he announced abruptly. Lovino didn't answer, and Antonio pushed his chair back, standing up to leave. His little visit had gone more poorly than he'd expected, which was rather disheartening. Only when he was halfway to the door did he remember his original purpose for stopping by, and turned back to face the still-seated Italian.

"Oh... by the way..."

Lovino finally raised his eyes to meet Antonio's.

" _Sì_?"

Antonio hesitated for a split second.

" _Gracias,_  Lovino."

The look in the Italian's eyes told Antonio his thanks had been accepted, and understood. It was a knowing glance, yet not of the unfriendly sort, and their eyes remained locked this time, green with hazel. A little more than a minute flew by before Lovino finally answered.

"...  _Prego_."

You're welcome.

_You're welcome._

He had said,  _you're welcome_. Another incongruity in an already incongruous series of events—the mouse had not minded helping the cat in the slightest. And that meant things between them, if there had ever been any, would no longer be the same.

Yet Antonio found his spirits had risen and his heart all but sang as he returned to his duties as captain.

* * *

_"Watch it, child!"_

_A tall man with a little daughter in tow ran by, evidently in a hurry, and brushed past a small boy, nearly knocking him down with the force of their passing. The boy swayed but caught his balance at the last minute, and recovered quickly, already utterly absorbed in the sights and sounds and smells of the outdoors. Venice. Città de Luce. The heart and soul of the world, center of riches and glory. It was paradise for any traveler, but especially for the boy standing alone in the crowded street, looking around him like he had never seen such a beautiful place before._

_He walked along, the expression on his face more of stupefied surprise than actual pleasure. Any passerby would have noted at a glance that he did not quite belong in the tumbled dust of Venice's busy streets. His clothes were clean and well-made; he wandered about aimlessly; if he had parents they were nowhere in sight. And his eyes held a spark of cleverness along with a desire for youthful adventures. His skin was pale, a sharp contrast to that of any sun-tanned Venetian. One might conclude the boy had never been outdoors, or that he simply came from somewhere farther north._

_And he couldn't have been more than ten years old, but he was short for his age. As it was no one took much notice of him; he was simply another small child among the many loud merchants' offspring who raced about the streets shouting and laughing. This boy was quiet, however, content to watch and listen._

_"Hey, little lad, you look hungry. Want to buy candy?"_

_The speaker was a rather ragged-looking vendor with a friendly face. Having been sitting under the eaves of a building, he now moved forward to offer his wares to the little boy. The child realized he was hungry and reached into his pocket for coins, but to his dismay found none._

_"I don't have money, sir," he said regretfully. The man nodded in understanding and had just made to turn away, when footsteps and a new voice sounded from behind them._

_"Wait, I'll pay!"_

_A taller boy with strikingly wild brown hair approached and promptly dropped a few coins into the man's hand. "Just one, please," he said in polite Italian and then accepted the sweets from the peddler, before pressing them into the smaller boy's hands._

_"G-grazie," the first stammered, eyes wide in surprise at the sudden gift._

_"Of course! Have it all, I don't mind!"_

_They ended up sharing anyway._

_The younger boy couldn't help staring in awe at his new benefactor. No child ever forgets his first friend. He was several heads taller, with an open face, a friendly smile, and eyes like verdant fields on a summer day, eyes that glowed bright as the sun when he talked. From his looks he was several years older and had the air of a jovial older brother._

_"So, what's your name?"_

_"...R-Romano."_

_Having thus introduced himself, Romano gave a quick, awkward nod, then busied himself with the sweet treats. The other boy was still watching him and he gave a small laugh: a merry, cheerful sound._

_"Oh, that's a nice name. Hello to you, little Roma. You can call me Toni!" He stretched out a rather large sun-tanned hand, and the smaller boy hesitantly shook it._

_"Toni," said Romano slowly, the name strange on his tongue. "Hello," he repeated, and the boy called Toni chuckled again, patting his back this time._

_"Hello, hello. I haven't seen you around before! Why are you out here by yourself?"_

_Romano was unsure how to answer. But being a child, and a young one at that, he told the truth._

_"I... ran away."_

_Toni glanced at him in surprise. "Really?"_

_"No one lets me come out here," Romano explained conspiratorially. "So I came here myself."_

_"...Oh." The older boy looked somewhat concerned. "Well, you should go back! You might get lost."_

_"No I won't," scoffed Romano. "My Nonno sails on ships and he says I have his instincts."_

_Toni observed him dubiously for a moment, then drew back with a grin._

_"All right. I believe you. You're a cute little thing."_

_"A-am not!" Romano protested, his face showing telltale signs of embarrassment. Toni laughed and ruffled his hair, which didn't help the boy's discomfort._

_"Aw, you are! Anyway, I've been here all my life, so I could show you around. Want to come with me?"_

_Romano's face lit up and he nodded eagerly before remembering something._

_"Sì, I will! Only... you must promise."_

_"Promise what?"_

_"Not to tell. If anyone finds out I'm here then I'm_ dead meat. _"_ _Romano made a face to prove his point._

_"Don't worry, little Roma, I won't."_

_The boy was not so easily convinced, however._

_"Pinky swear," he pouted, holding out his hand. Toni gave him a large grin and did the same, locking their pinky fingers together, one pale, one slightly darker._

_"There. Now it's sealed. I'll keep your secret forever!" he said earnestly, and Romano believed him because his gaze and his smile were sincere. The two exchanged conspiratorial smiles, and then Toni grabbed hold of Romano's hand._

_"Let's go, shall we?"_

_And that was how their friendship began._


	5. Conflicting Interests

"I'm tired," said Lovino out loud to nobody in particular.

He was utterly alone in the small stuffy cabin, hemmed in on all sides by wooden walls and a single porthole opening to the light and sea air. But the dim afternoon and the occasional breaths of salty wind weren't enough to support the imprisoned Italian, and had never been. He was amazingly exhausted. Somehow day after day of continuous work wasn't helping his physique or his temper.

That had probably been the pirates' intention from the beginning. What luck.

But the floor was still streaked with the muck every single pirate seemed to bring along with him. Lovino tiredly hefted the mop and resumed his attack on the filth, although he knew it was useless. Sooner or later some other man would come along and ruin his hours of careful cleaning and scrubbing. It was bound to happen, and Lovino was bound to stay there anyway.

Work, sleep, and maybe eat a little—that was what Lovino had learned would sustain (or more accurately, kill) him on this ship.

He fervently wished pirates had mealtimes all day, just so he could stay in the galley doing what he did best: cook and eat. But of course nothing ever went his way. When not cooking, he was expected to be cleaning. When not cleaning, he was expected to be cooking. Rest was unheard-of, until those wee hours of the morn when Lovino was free to stumble about and find an abandoned corner to collapse in.

And that damned pirate captain  _never said a word about it_. Some kind of friend he was turning out to be—but 'friend' was also another concept that pirates found foreign. Lovino was very much aware of his own lowly status here. And it seemed that the more valuable a prisoner was, the harder he would have to work to ensure his compliance. At least that was how Lovino saw it. He saw many things now.

He could also see a framed portrait hanging in the corner by the window. The glass enclosing the picture was dusty, and the entire affair looked as though it hadn't been touched in years—that would have to be amended, thought the Italian as he clambered up on a chair and painstakingly wiped the murkiness away.

She was elegantly painted—so much so as to be almost real. The possibility of life and movement shone from the folds of her dress to her glowing cheeks and bright, knowing emerald eyes.

Those eyes reminded him, almost, of Carriedo.

He sighed and let his cleaning rags fall limp in his hand as he gazed up at the portrait. Why did everything here remind him of some sort of faded glory that could never be regained? It was a melancholy feeling that hit Lovino as he stood there in solemn silence before the picture of the fair lady. The lady who looked too brilliant here, too out of place, surrounded by dank wooden walls and stale sea air and strained sunlight.

She was imprisoned just like him.

The thought gave Lovino a bit of comfort, in that he wasn't alone.

" _Signora,"_  he began suddenly, "You've been here a long time, haven't you?"

_Sì,_ he could imagine her saying,  _of course I have. I've seen a lot of things, you know. It's not peaceful here at all. Just one fight after another._

It was, of course, that voice inside his head, echoing his thoughts. He laughed bitterly with it.

"You're very right about that,  _mia signora._  I don't like it here either. Fuck that—I  _hate_ it here. If we hadn't set sail, maybe I'd have jumped out the window and swum back or died trying—would've been better than staying here working my life away." Lovino sighed tiredly. "I don't know what the hell was going on when I let myself get captured like this. Must've been drunk. Actually, I kind of wish I was drunk. Then maybe this would all just be a dream."

_A dream, you say...?_

He  _had_  had a dream. Earlier in the morning, during one of those toss-and-turn sleeps from which some pirate always kicked him awake. But it had been a strange dream, one of those haunting childhood memories he hated so much and tried his best to forget. They always came back though, in some eerie shape or other—and even now they were threatening to flood in again, fighting the battered mental barriers he had set up against them.

A flash of green eyes, green like a forest in the quiet night.

Green like the woman's.

Green like Carriedo's.

And yet, not like Carriedo's. Not like anyone else's. None of it.

Not those eyes, not that smile.

Because he was dead. He wasn't here anymore. There was no way.

Absolutely no way.

He didn't want to remember.

_He didn't want to remember._

Quickly Lovino continued on.

"...Y-yeah, I-I mean, maybe the pirate captain is a bit friendlier and better-looking than the rest, but—did I really fucking say he was good-looking. I don't give a damn anymore. Nothing about this place is  _right,_ you know? It's just a bunch of lawbreakers, and violent ones at that. They're—they're fucking  _messed up._ Two people died in the last day,  _two!_ And—and they still treat it like it's nothing... except him..."

That thought made him pause for just a moment. But Lovino's overwhelming desire soon returned to him.

"I just... want to leave. Don't you?"

He swore that as the ship swayed, he saw the woman's head nod in agreement.

At least someone understood...

The Italian leaned wearily against the wall and looked out at the window. Freedom shone outside in the clear blue waves and the distant land that he knew lay beyond, but it was still out of reach, all of it.

"I just want to go home..." he muttered to himself.

But no one was there to hear or help, except the silent image of the woman hanging on the wall beside him.

* * *

_Night had fallen over Italy, reminding its inhabitants that they had yet to return home and rest in preparation for a new day. People were obliging, merchants packing up their wares for safety purposes, and other passersby simply making the long trek home._

_Two boys raced between the crowds, one highly nervous, the other on the brink of tears._

_"You meanie," Romano shouted as they ran along. "You lied! You lied about the time and now they're going to KILL me!"_

_"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I really am! But I didn't know it was late, really I didn't! I'm sorry—"_

_"Apology not accepted!"_

_"Aw, but Roma—"_

_"No!"_

_"I swear I'll—"_

_"No, shut up!"_

_The Italian boy's voice cracked slightly and Toni stared at him in shock._

_"Roma—are you okay?"_

_Romano sniffled and rubbed his nose and turned away, refusing to answer. But the tears on his face gave him away. And Toni's guilty look only made him feel even worse._

_"Roma..."_

_"Go away."_

_Toni observed him very solemnly and sadly, then suddenly lifted the small boy in his arms. Romano squawked and flailed and protested, but to no avail._

_"Let go of me!"_

_"No!"_

_"Are you going to kidnap me—?"_

_"Of course not!" Toni exclaimed, his eyes becoming huge and aghast. "I'm taking you home, all right? And you can blame me all you want when we talk to your Nonno."_

_Romano huffed and stayed silent, his own form of affirmation._

_They continued on._

_"... Uh, so where's your house, Roma?"_

_The Italian whimpered a little._

_"I-I don't remember."_

"What?"

_"I don't remember!" wailed Romano. "I-I know I climbed over the wall, and I saw the candy man in the corner, and the people selling jewels, and that's it!"_

_"Not the street?" Toni attempted futilely._

_"N-no."_

_"Darn... do you know what it looks like? Your house?"_

_"It—it has two stone lions in front of the gate. And the gate is painted gold... there's a wall around it too."_

_Toni nodded._

_"And... and the house is big. It has three floors. It shines like ivory when the sun comes out..."_

_"...All right." The older boy seemed deep in thought. "I think I know where that is... where the rich people live, huh?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Okay, let's go see..."_

_Several turns in the road later they came to the wealthy quarter of Venice and Romano cried out in joy. Sure enough there was his home—the Palladian-style villa—at the end of the street. He jumped out of Toni's arms and ran to the wall, completely disregarding the other boy._

_"Oh, there you are, Romano. Where did you romp off to today?"_

_The Italian nearly fell off the wall in shock. There stood Nonno at the top, voice dangerously cheerful and face dangerously placid. Romano knew full well he was in trouble of the deepest kind._

_He felt a hand grab onto his shirt, steadying him from behind as he clambered back down, frightened and nervous._

_"Well?" Nonno said sternly from above._

_Romano didn't know what to say._

_"Toni," he whispered, turning, "can't you—"_

_He wasn't there._

_No one was there. The night was silent; the road behind Romano was deserted, as though it had always been that way._

_"Aren't you coming in, Roma?" Nonno was saying. "The gates are open. Who are you waiting for?"_

_"I—There was a—another boy—"_

_"Come in and tell me about it."_

_Gulping, the little Italian entered the courtyard and followed his Nonno shakily into the house. The gate slammed shut behind them with finality._

_Romano was questioned thoroughly, received his due scolding and was sent up to bed without dinner. He had no further punishment for the night except to sit and rethink his rash actions in private. Alone in his room, he stared out the window at nothing in particular._

_The boy called Toni had vanished just like that, without a trace. Without even revealing much about himself besides his name. But he knew quite enough about Romano already—that he was wealthy, lived in this house, which everyone knew belonged to the Vargas family. Sure, he'd taken Romano home this time, but Nonno had expressed his concern. What if he decided to—_

_A crackle sounded somewhere inside his clothes as he shifted. It was a crumpled scrap of paper that fell out of his shirt. Tentatively Romano unfolded it._

_Just three words, in messy scratchy handwriting._

I'll be back.

* * *

"Hey, wake up," a voice whispered, followed by someone shaking him lightly. He heard himself make a noise and try to go back to sleep.

"C'mon, get up."

"...Don' wanna," mumbled Lovino.

"I have tomatoes,  _mi amigo_!" the voice crooned. Oh God, that voice sounded  _awfully fucking familiar—_

Lovino cracked one eye open.

"Wh-what the  _fuck_ do you wa—" He stopped as  _that face_ came into full focus and froze mid-thought. "Oh  _shit_."

"Why, aren't you happy to see me, Lovi?"

Carriedo somehow had the presence (or non-presence) of mind to look chastened.

" _Don't_  call me Lovi," the Italian in question groaned automatically as he sat up. His limbs were blocks of lead and his head felt as though someone had slammed a sandbag into it. "Where the fuck am I?"

"I don't know!" the captain said airily. "I came into my cabin just now and found you lying on the floor!"

_My cabin._

_His_ cabin.

_Carriedo's_  cabin.

"Holy mother of fuck."

"... Wait, where are you going?"

"Nowhere," growled Lovino, trying to free his arm from the pirate's surprisingly strong grasp. Carriedo smiled sweetly and didn't let go.

Damn him.

How the fuck had Lovino ended up in his fucking  _cabin_ , of all places!? And how in hell had the Spaniard managed to show up at the worst possible time? He had just caught Lovino napping on the job. Who knew what misfortunes would befall him and what tortures he might have to undergo at the hands of this smiling bastard.

Oh, the wonders that happened here day after day.

"Are you all right, Lovi?" the captain asked kindly, having noticed Lovino's darkening expression.

A straight answer was necessary, and a straight answer was given.

" _No."_

Carriedo's face fell. "Ah—well,  _lo siento_  about that... but since you're here, I need to ask you something."

His solemn tone of voice caused Lovino to fall silent. He did his best instead to look stupid and obedient, although judging by the half-confused, half-choking-back-laughter look on his target's face, it wasn't working.

"Anyway, I need to tell you... it's about Italy. We need to stop soon for supplies before going on to Venice. The new navigator told me we can do that at Gallipoli—we'll be there in a few hours."

Lovino stopped moving altogether and stared at him.

"Well?" The captain sat back and waited patiently, probably for a positive response. "Do you know anything about Gallipoli, Lovi?"

The Italian tried this time to look stupid and indifferent.

"...No, I don't."

The Spaniard's mouth fell open in obvious surprise.

"You... you  _don't?"_

In any other situation Lovino would have laughed his ass off, except this was serious and his life was, quite literally, hanging on the line.

"No," he said firmly, and waited.

For a moment there was no answer.

"But..." Carriedo stood and paced around the room—nervously, it seemed. That was new. And actually rather unnerving. "You're Italian... don't you know even a little bit about the cities there?"

Lovino did, in fact. But if he could safely withhold his knowledge from the pirates then at least fewer people would be harmed. When these people happened to be fellow Italians then the stakes were high indeed.

"For the last time, I don't. I can tell you all the damn names of the pasta we cook, but I don't know shit about Gallipoli.  _Mi spiace_ , Carriedo. I couldn't tell you if I tried."

The man before him sighed.

"But we have to tell them  _something_."

Now it was Lovino's turn to gape at him.

He could have lost his temper, lashed out at Lovino, and killed him even— but  _this_?

"You—you're suggesting we  _make things up_?"

A shrug from the pirate captain. "Why not?"

Lovino wanted to laugh. He couldn't believe this was actually happening.

"So it's the crew who wants to hear it, then?"

" _Sí."_  Carriedo made a noncommittal noise. "It doesn't really matter if we're right or wrong. They won't be able to tell the difference if you don't say anything important. All they want is your confirmation that we'll find something there. You know what I mean, don't you?"

This Lovino knew very well. He knew several things very well—except one.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

Lovino snorted.

"You know what I mean.  _This._ Are you seriously trying to  _help_ me? Or  _save_  me? Or some shit like that?"

Carriedo's bright eyes fixed on him. They didn't leave Lovino's face for several seconds. After a moment he shrugged again.

"Maybe I am."

"Why?"

"Because I feel like it."

"I'm pretty sure not one pirate captain out there would simply 'feel like' helping a prisoner out."

"Well, there's me."

The Italian scowled.

"You're avoiding the damn question."

"Because I can. I'm the  _capitán_ , remember?"

If Carriedo's smile became any snarkier Lovino would, quite possibly, punch his face in.

"Pulling that one on me, are you? Well fine. Nice favor you've done for me.  _Molto grazie._  Tell them what you want. Maybe there's treasure in the sea about three leagues from shore. What the hell. I don't fucking care."

He stood up and made his way to the door.

"Why are you so angry?" Carriedo had the audacity to sound  _hurt_.

Lovino had one hand on the door latch. Very slowly he let go and turned to face the Spaniard.

"Because you're playing around with me. You laugh at me. You think I'm just a little prisoner who can't do anything to you because you're the fucking  _captain._ Well, go right ahead. I don't give a shit anymore. You'll find out soon enough."

Not waiting for a reply, he left.

* * *

Nighttime found him concealed under a pile of canvas in the corner of the deck.

All was calm; the moon was bright in the darkness. It shone over the quiet ship and the lone Italian looking out over the sea.

Gallipoli.

Freedom.

So close, and yet so far away.


	6. The Albatross Takes Flight

_Crack_ went his whip.

 _Swish_ went his sword.

Wooden planks shattered as he removed his pirate's axe from the wall.

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had at last reached the high point of his life.

His first voyage of conquest had led him here, to a small city on the Italian coast, a most viable destination—this would be his first major test. Antonio's status as a captain depended on it.

And thus failure was not an option.

An abandoned old sack lay in the corner of his cabin, halfway tucked beneath his bed; he reached for it with his good hand and tossed it in the air. Then he grasped his axe, testing his left arm.

It had been several days since he'd received the injury, but he was pleased to observe that the wound had started to close over, without infection. To be sure, it wasn't completely healed, and still rather uncomfortable to move, rather like a heavy block of wood; but it was the best Antonio could ask for, and he would need both arms where he was going.

In a gleaming arc the axe swung, slicing cleanly through the fabric, before what was left of the bag fell to the ground with a loud clunk.

Satisfied, Antonio knelt to examine the contents. Colorful stones spilled through his fingers, emeralds and rubies and other precious gems, glowing by the light of his dying candle. These he remembered well—relics from past days of glory, days he had spent as an underling, always watching and waiting in the background. But those days were over now. Now was the time for him to do the same for himself, conquer and destroy and make his mark.

_Now was the time._

As though sensing his silent elation, the ship seemed to race ever faster through the water, the shouts of his men growing increasingly excited. And then came the triumphant cry, lancing through the darkness.

"LAND HO! LAND HO!"

Antonio's candle blew out, and he suddenly found himself in darkness; but it didn't matter. Outside the sky had begun to lighten, first slowly and then more substantially. A faint bluish light entered his cabin, the dawn of a new day. He straightened up, re-sheathed his sword, picked up his other trusty weapons and left the room.

Out on deck his crew were already frenziedly preparing the  _Trinidad_  for landing. A rather anxious-looking Eduardo rushed up to him.

" _Sì,_  what is it?" The captain made sure to conceal his anticipation beneath a show of indifference. Whether he was fooled or not, Eduardo looked equally unmoved.

"Cap'n, they tells me we be landin' in less than an hour."

"Good."

"Any orders, Cap'n?"

"Yes, but I'll give them myself." Antonio turned and addressed the others. "Get ready to drop anchor! Avoid rocks, we won't be going too close to shore—we'll take them by surprise! They won't even know what hit them."

This was met with guffaws from all around, and the pirates immediately fell to work. Antonio took his place at the ship's wheel and stared ahead at the rushing water. There over the horizon, barely visible through the morning dimness, was the silhouette of a strip of land. Then appeared the buildings, the tall spires of a city.

 _Gallipoli_ , he thought with a little thrill.

They were almost there...

Finally the moment came when he heard the heavy clunk of the anchor as it hit the seabed, turned the wheel one last time, and set the ship to rest a little ways from land. They were partially hidden behind tall boulders near the coast. All was quiet save the hushed whispers of the crewmen and the stirring of the waves.

The  _Trinidad_ had made it. She was here.

It was now Antonio's job to make sure no one ever forgot what was to happen next. He could practically taste the victory, made all the more sweet in that it would belong not to the English, but to the Spanish.

That was the way things were meant to be.

Eduardo and several pirates were readying a small boat, while a few others went to fetch the best blades they could find. The air was thick with anxiety and anticipation; Antonio could practically feel the eagerness radiating off his fellow mates in waves.

Distantly, he heard a splash from the stern of the ship.

A long moment passed and Antonio tried to think. Unexplained splashes near his own ship couldn't be anything good. He was just about to send some of his crew to investigate, when he was interrupted by a loud, excited shout.

"Man overboard!" yelled a wiry young sailor, running forward and waving his arms ridiculously. He was soon followed by a burlier pirate who confirmed his statement.

"Ye dummy—it's the  _prisoner_!"

Antonio froze.

"... What did you say?"

The second pirate shook his head.

"It's the prisoner. He escaped!"

"... Escaped."

"Aye, he did. Jumped right off the damn ship."

" _Mierda._ And you let him go just like that?"

"...  _Lo siento_ , Cap'n."

The captain turned to him, his expression dangerously cold.

"Get him back. Right now. Don't hurt him, just bring him back.  _Go."_

"Aye, Cap'n."

Antonio watched until the two vanished around a corner, and then he smashed his fist against the wall. Eduardo and the first mate Emilio glanced at him in concern, but Antonio ignored them.

He should expected something like this. He should have known.

Looking back, it had all been clear enough. Lovino hadn't gotten angry with him for no reason. It was obvious the Italian had hated it here. Hated plenty of things, Antonio included, if his outburst gave any indication.

And what did prisoners do when they hated their surroundings?

They  _escaped._

How had he managed to be so careless?

It wasn't that he cared about Lovino—the Italian was probably safe where he was going, anyway. The one problem was his escape from a  _pirate ship._  And that meant the whole operation here was compromised: Lovino might warn the other Italians, they might gather a small force to attack the  _Trinidad,_ the pirates would have to leave, and what then? Antonio would have to bid farewell to his role as captain, and possibly even more.

He couldn't let that happen.

Breaking into a run, he reached the stern just as the sailor and the burly pirate emerged from the railing, both dripping wet. There was no Italian in sight.

"Where's the prisoner?" Antonio demanded.

"He—he was too fast, Cap'n," panted the sailor, wiping his brow. "Methinks he's got himself ashore by now—agh!"

In his fury Antonio nearly throttled the poor man.

"You are  _useless,_ you hear me?" he roared. "Useless, perfectly useless! So we came here for nothing, then!"

Angrily, he let go of the now choking sailor and stormed back to the aft of the ship, where Eduardo and the others had successfully landed the small boat in the water. The quartermaster allowed Antonio to draw him aside and whisper to him.

"Bring as many people as you can," Antonio ordered. "We'll have strength in numbers if we can surprise them. Leave the useless ones here. Don't tell them where we're going. I'll sail the ship farther off so it's harder to reach."

With an "Aye" and a nod, Eduardo set to carrying out his instructions with unnatural haste, and the rest of the pirates anxiously followed suit. It seemed everyone had at last understood the seriousness of the situation.

Indeed, it might well mean life or death for many of them—especially one.

* * *

Now was not the time to reflect on how he'd shirked all his swimming lessons from his childhood days, but he couldn't help remembering; the screaming of his limbs was proof enough of that. The only thing that had kept him going was the thought of his possible recapture, and almost certain death, at the hands of those two pirates. So he'd swum for his life, and not even the chill of the water could get in his way.

It did now, though. Lovino had purposely led them into the maze of rocks by the shore, hoping the scoundrels would eventually give up and return to the ship. He had been right, and now he was safe; the ship couldn't navigate large boulders anyway.

But as he stopped for breath, the cold waves seemed to seep into his bones, and before long the Italian was shivering violently. With the last of his strength he pulled himself to shore and collapsed on the sand.

"Hey, what're you doing out here? Swimming? It isn't even morning yet!"

Lovino lifted his head and looked back. A few yards away, sitting on a flat rock, fishing pole in hand, was the oldest, gruffest-looking man he had seen in a long time (aside from Nonno, of course). Grey hair, grey eyebrows, grey beard, many wrinkles, sharp dark eyes.

A fellow Italian.

Ah, how he'd missed the sight of his own countrymen.

"Get off of there," Lovino croaked.

The man shook his head in disapproval. "Young'uns nowadays... no manners, no manners at all." But he did get off the rock, and after what seemed like ages Lovino felt surprisingly strong hands grabbing ahold of his arm and helping him up. The old man gave him another displeased look.

"Now tell me why you're here, alone, and half-drowned. What in the world did you do?"

"N-nothing," managed Lovino, doing his best to stand. " _Signore_... take your things. We need to leave. There's people after me... they might get you too."

" _Che_?" His savior looked alarmed, but followed. "Who are they?"

Lovino opened his mouth to speak, but the image of a hurt-looking, green-eyed Spaniard rushed into his head and he hesitated.

If he told, the villagers and city-dwellers would most certainly band together to fight off the pirates. Then what would happen to them... to Antonio?

The Italian shook his head to clear it.

Why the fuck did he care?

These were fellow Italians. His  _own people_. He couldn't let anything happen to them. Not at the hands of a few law-breaking assholes.

"They're pirates," he said finally, and the expression on the old man's face was worth it all.

" _Pirates._ "

" _Sì_."

"Good Lord. Then we need to tell everyone. And quickly. They're here already, aren't they?"

Lovino could only give a mute nod.

"Flesh-and-blood pirates, you say..." the man muttered to himself. Quickly he retraced their steps and erased their footprints as best as he could. Then he returned and rushed Lovino along. In a few moments they had reached a small village.

"Never would have dreamed of something like this... but we can fight them off. Thank you for warning us... By the way, what's your name?"

"Lovino," said Lovino.

"Ah."

"That's my name, of course," he felt obliged to explain.

There was a pause.

"... Are you Lovino Vargas, by any chance?"

"Wait, how the fuck did you—" Lovino almost bit his tongue trying to take back his words. "H-how did you know?"

"News," said the old man, waving off the colorful language. "Your family sent people to ask around and look for you. We heard how you were captured in Sicilia. The couriers warned us about pirates, but I never thought they'd actually come here... Anyway, call me Tommaso. You've got my help for sure, young lad. I'll be damned if I let a  _bastardo_ touch any one of my children."

Lovino wasn't sure if that meant he was automatically one of those children, but at the moment he couldn't have been more grateful. He had actually escaped that dratted pirate ship, made a willing and able friend, and quite possibly they could check the pirates' advance before they did any lasting damage.

Things were going fairly fucking well.

" _Grazie, signore_ ," he said, and meant it.

Then he collapsed.

* * *

" _¡Vamos!_  Hurry up!" Antonio repeated for what must have been the thousandth time that day. But the pirate with the oars couldn't seem to row fast enough. Finally Eduardo knocked him out of the way and took his place, and they went much faster from there.

Soon they reached the shore, and, after making sure the coast was clear, joined the other pirates, who had pushed inland and congregated by a small wood.

"Cap'n, we didn't find the prisoner," said first mate Emilio, running to meet them. "But these here might be his footprints."

Antonio looked where he pointed, and sure enough, there were a few faint indentations in the sand in the shape of feet. Most of them had been rubbed out, but not completely.

"Think they're goin' that way." Emilio pointed in a northeasterly direction.

"So he's gotten away," said Antonio aloud. "He probably knows this place well, too. That means he'll warn everyone in no time."

"What should we do?" asked a young pirate.

The captain looked around. They were just concealed by the trees' shade, but the sun was fast rising, and after that they wouldn't have much cover at all.

Going back to the ship was out of the question. If they moved deeper into the woods, they would have to stay put for much of the day without food or drink, and possibly risk discovery. And if they were to push forward...

He could see the city had walls. And towers.

Lots of them.

"Let's get to the villages and rob them first. Kill them, take their clothes and disguise ourselves as civilians. Then we'll slip into the city and teach them how to fear  _real_  pirates."

His men looked excited and ready enough; they were hardened killers, after all, every single one of them, and most were experienced enough to successfully disguise and deceive. They could do this, as long as their timing was right and they proceeded with stealth.

And, Antonio thought to himself, they might just find the Italian in the process.

Even if Lovino  _had_ insulted and shouted at him before—he was simply too adorable to die. Antonio rather missed him already, missed all his little quirks and blushes and frequent usage of swear words. He was definitely coming back with them when they found him. And by that time he might just reconsider his dislike for the  _Trinidad_ 's captain. He just might.

Antonio hoped so, anyway. If everything went well, it would all be resolved in the end.

And now, to make the first move.


	7. A Missing Link

_The first few weeks after being found out, he had not once tried to escape again. Like Petrosinella in her tower, so he was trapped in the Vargas villa, surrounded by gilded frames and spiraling sculptures and all the furnishings of the wealthy and the powerful. But they did not impart any wisdom to him—he was too young to appreciate much of it anyway—and he felt trapped and lonely._

_For some time Romano did not hear anything from Toni; he often fancied that the older boy might be watching him secretly from afar, only keeping to the shadows due to Nonno's constant surveillance. But whether this was true, he couldn't tell. It was only after about a month, when he'd climbed the many steps to the northernmost ramparts—for the twelfth time—that he finally heard a familiar yell from the other side of the wall._

_That well-known face and those ever-smiling eyes beamed up at him from below._

_"Roma! I'm back!"_

_Of course, Romano nearly fell off his seat when he realized it really_ was _Toni, but that was normal._

 _"Where the heck did you go?" he shouted angrily. "You didn't come back for a_ month!  _And I waited!"_

_"Lo siento, but... my papa had business!" Toni had already started climbing the wall, and sat himself down next to Roma, swinging his legs as he sat on the very edge. He looked freer and livelier and happier than ever, and Romano, noticing this, felt rather jealous of him._

_"We went around town for a while," Toni elaborated after a moment of silence. "I had to go with him, so I couldn't come back. But I'm here now, so what say you to a little walk, Roma?"_

_The little Italian glared at him and Toni stopped, abashed._

_"Nonno won't let me anymore because of_ you!"

_"But... I didn't mean to, I swear!" the other boy protested. "I promised I wouldn't tell, and I never did! I just didn't know it would take that long... you're still mad at me for that, aren't you? I'm sorry..."_

_Romano gave a little huff, but his face had softened and the childish anger had at last faded._

_Maybe it had been the expression in those expressive green eyes._

_He forgave Toni that time, freely and without regret. Together they went out exploring once again. All the way down to the canals, where they'd hitched a ride on a gondola with the aid of Toni's silver tongue. They went farther that time, saw more of the city, exchanged whispers of astonishment and discovery (although, to be sure, it was mostly Roma). And Romano himself found out more about the mysterious older boy who had bought candy for him that first day on the street._

_Of Spanish origin, he was, but his family had come to Italy a long time ago. Like Romano, he had no mother. But he did have a father. What that father did was unknown, but he managed to bring back enough money to feed and clothe Toni and his sister, and for that Toni seemed grateful enough. Romano, of course, did not much understand such difficulties._

_What fascinated him most, however, was the vast knowledge Toni seemed to have, tucked away in his mind until the time came to make use of it all. Sometimes they would sneak to the libraries together, and pore over books until the place closed and it was time to run back home. And often, when Romano was trapped at home, Toni would come climbing up the wall in the evenings to join him for the sunsets._

_It was almost too easy to feel something for him, and one day late in the summer, Romano realized it._

_Just several days ago, they had had a close call. Romano had gone back up the wall, as was his wont, and gotten the shock of his life when he'd seen Nonno down below, talking with the guards. He'd been lucky to sneak back to his room without being noticed, but hadn't dared to meet Toni for the next few days._

_The moment the Spanish boy showed up again, Romano, harnessing the spoiled nature with which he'd grown up all his life, was ready to make a bargain._

_"If I go with you this time, you better give me something nice."_

_Toni only responded with a grin, unfazed by these sudden new terms of friendship._

_"Oh, but I_ do! _" he exclaimed. "Wait—" And he reached into his pocket and brought out a golden something that glittered in the morning sun. Romano's eyes suddenly grew to the size of saucers._

 _"Is—is that a necklace?" he spluttered. "But necklaces are for_ girls!"

_Toni looked saddened, which made Romano feel rather guilty. "My papa brought this back with him, though... he said it costs a lot of money, and he was lucky he got it free of charge. Don't you want it? It's pretty. And it has real gold. Look!"_

_He held up the necklace to the light, and it flashed, brilliantly. A golden charm gleamed—a little carving of a sun, with a tiny smiling face. Romano stared at it in wonder for a while, finding it hard to hide his interest._

_"It_ is  _nice," he admitted finally._

_Toni brightened and watched him, excitement shining in his eyes._

_"Nice enough for you to take it so we can go?"_

_Romano pouted._

_"Maybe."_

_The way Toni's face glowed at the response was enough for him to say yes, even just in his head. Romano was too young to understand the implications of such a gift, and he was used to getting expensive presents anyway._

_The little Italian watched as the older boy helped him put on the necklace. Toni's eyes shone so angelically, so joyfully, and his face was that of a boy at one with the world. He looked so content..._

_Romano felt his cheeks growing red with something other than ordinary embarrassment._

_"There!" announced Toni after what seemed like forever (at least to Romano). "It looks pretty, see! I have one too!"_

_And from under his shirt he pulled out another gold necklace, almost identical in design to the one Romano wore—except dangling from the chain was a little moon. Toni reached for the sun from Romano's necklace and pressed them together with a little click. They fit together perfectly._

_"My papa said they're supposed to be together! And it's supposed to be the same for the people who wear it... But I wanted to give it to you because it's special. And you're special, too!" Toni grinned as he caught sight of Romano's indignant blush. "Keep it for me, won't you? Then—if one of us grows up and leaves and comes back again, we can still find each other! Okay?"_

_Romano looked down at the two small ornaments, connected by a childish pair of hands. Then he glanced back up to meet Toni's smile._

_"Okay."_

* * *

He awoke, gasping, in a cold sweat. The chill of the night wrapped around him, and he shivered violently, but it was more from the nightmarish memories still repeating, ceaselessly and without mercy. The haunting words and eerie cheerful laugh seemed to echo in the sudden silence, and he shook his head, trying to push it away, to forget—but it all remained.

He felt sick—almost delirious. Surely he couldn't have caught cold from that near-drowning in the sea. Someone had helped him—who was it again?—Tommaso, yes. This was probably his very house, but it was safe, he was sure. Nothing could happen here... In his half-dreaming state Lovino couldn't remember what it was he'd come here for.

His mind was still fixated on that faint, happy, chilling memory. The dream came back to him every once in a long while, whenever he was particularly drained or unhappy or otherwise unwell. And every time he awoke from it, not believing it was true, not  _wanting_ to believe it was true, that it had actually happened. But every time he reached for the necklace, it had been there.

And that was how he knew everything had been real.

Of course the boy Toni had not been a figment of his imagination. He knew, yes, he knew. In fact, he knew this so well that he'd sometimes wondered whether that one Spaniard named Antonio Fernandez Carriedo might be the same person. Certainly his name was similar enough, his cheerful demeanor, his eyes...

But the boy from his youth was gone. He wasn't coming back, and Lovino knew that just as well, and accepted it. Remembering and musing over it only made things more painful, more disturbing, more frightening.

Shakily he lifted his hand to his throat, attempting to confirm the presence of the golden necklace as he had done so many times before. He was prepared for the feeling of cool metal against his fingers, the pricks from the sharp edges of the tiny carving, so that he could cement the reality of the dream, to relive that once-happy memory in its entirety.

But it wasn't there.

* * *

It seemed only seconds later before there came a tap on his door, and in walked Tommaso without waiting for a reply.

"I've seen them," he said simply. "They're still far off, but they're coming, and quickly. They might be here in a little over an hour."

Lovino stared almost blankly at him, his own thoughts momentarily interrupted.

"That soon?" he asked in disbelief.

"Looks like it." The older man's face was lined with worry and a touch of grimness. "And it's almost daylight. I've already had most of the women and children leave for the woods, off to the west—the far end where they won't be found so easily. There's a small shelter set up for them already..." From the look on his face, it would seem that he'd orchestrated the whole plan himself.

"But they would be safer behind city walls," protested Lovino.

"Yes, that's true, but it's still rather far off, and I don't know if they'll make it before the pirates arrive. I don't want to risk their being seen." Lovino remembered his talk of 'children,' and wondered whether he might have a child or grandchild there among them. "And I do have a few able-bodied lads with them for protection. But as for the rest of us..."

The unspoken question hung in the air like an invisible weight.

_Fight or flight?_

Lovino had just opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly it didn't seem like his place to do so. He was but a visitor, albeit an unknown and unexpected one.

At last he resorted to a cautious question.

"What did the others say?"

Tommaso glanced at him, and a wry grin spread across his suntanned features.

"They're staying. We all are."

The younger Italian blinked.

That was to be expected, however. Given the choice between leaving  _his_ own home and defending it, Lovino would have done exactly the same.

"I'll help," he said suddenly.

He'd thought the older man's face couldn't possibly grow more serious, but it did. Tommaso gave him a look of utter disapproval. "Lovino, you're unwell. We didn't want to move you till you woke, but you'll be going to the woods. It's not safe here."

"No."

" _No_?"

" _No,_ " said Lovino firmly, and his eyes flashed suddenly with a strange, unidentifiable emotion. "I have a score to settle. I'm not going anywhere."

After a long moment, Tommaso nodded.

"Then so be it. Come with me and I'll get you outfitted."

Lovino rose and made to follow him, but one thing still weighed heavily on his mind.

"Tommaso—on the way here, did you see me drop anything?" The questioned looked curiously at him, and he hurried to explain. "I mean—it was just something small. A necklace, perhaps? A gold necklace?"

He only received a confused glance in response.

"No... You lost it, you say?"

" _Sì_..." Lovino reached up to his neck again, but as he'd found earlier, there was nothing there. Something akin to anger flared up at the loss, although he'd never consciously attached much value to the necklace. "Perhaps I  _didn't_  drop it," he mused. "Perhaps one of the pirates took it from me—how couldn't I have noticed?—perhaps it might even be Carriedo himself." He gritted his teeth at the mention of the name. "Well, if it is, fuck him... I'll have another word with him soon enough... we'll see who wins out  _then._  Ha!"

Completely disregarding the old man's presence, he strode angrily out of the room, still muttering to himself, walking in no particular direction.

Tommaso remained still for a moment, staring at the retreating back of the young man, and then shook his head.

"Recklessness... such recklessness..." he mused. "And they call themselves 'brave,' these young'uns..."

* * *

The sun was rising, slowly but surely, and it was heralded by the chirping and cawing of numerous seabirds, which grew louder and noisier as the minutes dragged on. The racket did not much help many of the pirates' strained nerves—particularly Antonio's.

Ever since he'd set foot on this beach, his senses had sharpened, instantly and almost unpleasantly. He felt as though every single whisper on the wind, every rustle in the bushes, every little sign of life in the landscape around him might indicate someone watching. He couldn't shake off the ominous feeling, although he knew he shouldn't be too concerned with a mere bunch of villagers.

The pirates around him were equally restless. Antonio had ordered them split into three groups in order to surround the village. He himself, more out of obligation than true willingness, led the pirates who would meet the foe directly. That was to happen first—then Eduardo and Emilio would come at them from behind and the sides to make sure no one escaped.

It was a good plan on paper and in verbal discussion—but whether it would  _work_  would have to be determined by chance and luck and other such factors.

They trekked for a while without much ado, following the general direction of the faded footprints that had been found earlier. All was quiet for the longest time, and then:

"Cap'n, look! I found somethin'!" hissed a young pirate.

Quickly the others gathered around, and Antonio pushed his way through them to the sound of the voice.

"What is it?"

The boy held up his hand. In his palm lay something golden that shimmered, even in the dim light.

It was a necklace.

As Antonio caught sight of it, something in his chest tightened, and he felt as though a weight suddenly pressed upon him. Silently he reached for it and held it up to the sky.

A small charm, in the shape of a sun, dangled from the thin chain.

"Where... where did you find this?" he managed to ask.

"Right there," answered the young pirate, unnerved by the captain's expression and tone of voice. "It was next to those footprints. It could have been the prisoner's."

And in that moment everything seemed to crash down upon Antonio.

He stared at the piece of jewelry in his hand, unmoving, almost disbelieving. It couldn't be true... after all this time, it had reappeared.

 _He_ had reappeared.

It was him.

It had been him all along.

* * *

_"C'mon, you know that's not true—answer my question, mi amigo! You're from Italy, I'm from Italy! Couldn't we get to know each other—"_

_"Wait."_

_"Sí?"_

_Lovino was staring at him with an incredulous look._

_"You... you said you were from Italy...?"_

* * *

Involuntarily he reached one hand up and clutched at the little carved moon which hung from his own golden necklace.

Of course he had come from Italy.

Where else could he have obtained the necklaces, and given one away?


	8. Darkness and Light

Lovino couldn't help but feel slightly more powerful as he left Tommaso's house, bow in hand and a quiver of arrows strapped to his shoulder. The old man had convinced him, out of common sense, to take along a sword and dagger, but the younger Italian doubted he would use them. He was more accustomed to climbing high places and shooting at things from above; but in any case, he felt at ease.

And prepared.

And safe.

Well, as safe as he  _could_ be in the face of an impending pirate attack.

Still, he became grateful for the additional weapons when it came time to inspect the village houses. He did it out of a sense of duty—but the deserted homes were lonely, empty, ominous. And every little breath of wind racing through the abandoned structures seemed to whisper of desperate flight and hopelessness. The sounds alone sent chills up his spine, and more than once Lovino found himself drawing his sword in alarm, only to realize the culprit had merely been a noisy wood creature.

Disgusted with his own jumpiness, he had just stormed out of the fifth house on the street when a high-pitched wail reached his ears.

In front of the last house a tiny girl was crying loudly. She had tucked herself behind what remained of dilapidated little fence, rendering her barely visible; Lovino might have overlooked her if it hadn't been for her voice.

Hesitantly he stepped closer. The girl saw him and cried out.

"Who are you?" she squeaked, staring at him with huge, frightened brown eyes.

Lovino noticed how small and alone she was, remembered something, and felt an unknown emotion pass over him.

"I'm Lovino Vargas," he said, and evidently the child recognized the name, for some of the fear had vanished from her expression. "What are you doing here,  _bambina?_ It's dangerous. Where are your parents?"

"I-I don't know. I came back and they were gone," the girl babbled. "I'm scared..."

"Don't be. I'm here to help." Lovino hoped his voice was as reassuring as he felt. "I think I know where they are. What's your name?"

"Fia."

"Okay, Fia. I'll take you back,  _sì_? It won't be long."

Fia nodded, clung very tightly to his leg—she was barely taller than his knee—and gazed up at him with that look of ultimate trust that only the very smallest children can give. It was all too easy to see, in those innocent eyes, a younger version of himself. Lovino sighed and lifted her up on his shoulders and went back to see Tommaso.

"The woods aren't that far—go right down the street, keep walking to the west, and you'll find them soon enough. If you need to explain, tell them I sent you. But they'll probably know you anyway." The elderly man didn't seem at all perturbed by his leaving, which probably meant he'd rather pack Lovino into the woods with all the rest.

But of course Lovino wasn't settling for that.

Hurriedly he set off in the direction Tommaso had indicated, stepping quick to avoid gnarled roots on the ground, whacking through branches and spider webs and all manner of obstructions, and making sure Fia didn't get scratched by any of it. Several times he had to whip out his sword at unknown noises, and at last he kept it out, as every little sound from the shadows could spell danger.

Fia, meanwhile, had calmed considerably, and seemed to have grown more relaxed in his presence. Occasionally she would ask how long they were taking, or hum, or sing, to which Lovino would tell her to quiet down.

And then, of course, she had to notice his damn  _hair._

"Signor Vargas, what's this?" Fia shrilled, poking at a strand of hair in front—the one he could never comb down. Lovino winced uncomfortably.

"Don't touch it. Don't touch my hair, all right?"

"But your hair is manly! It's even manlier than  _fratello's_ ," she declared in triumph, and Lovino made an exasperated sound.

Of all the things in the world a child could amuse herself with, it had to be this. It always was. And on top of that, Lovino had never been good around children, a fact he wasn't proud of and didn't bother to change because he'd already planned never to have any. Ever.

"Just play with your  _fratello_ 's hair when we find him," he sighed.

"But I  _like_ your hair! Can you cut some off and give it to me, Signor Vargas? Pleeeease?"

Lovino groaned and would have said something to the effect of "No, please get your hands out of my hair before I call your parents, you annoying little thing"—but at that moment they'd arrived at the emergency shelter.

It wasn't much of a shelter, really—more of a hurriedly built circle of flimsy tents and weak fences. But armed young men stood on duty, just as Tommaso had described, and they were about to halt Lovino when one of them caught sight of Fia on his shoulder.

" _Sorella_!" he cried happily just as Fia shouted, " _Fratello_!"

Tumbling down, she ran on thin little legs into her brother's arms and clung to him, relieved enough to endure his many reprimands and angry, worried exclamations. Lovino watched them awkwardly from the sidelines, somewhat reminded of his own sternness with Feliciano. It was a rather melancholy memory for him.

At last Fia's brother stopped fussing over her long enough to look up at Lovino.

" _Grazie. Grazie mille_ ," he said sincerely. His eyes were warm and friendly. "You have all my gratitude."

"It was no problem." Lovino felt awkward in the sudden quiet. "She's a good kid," he added after a moment, to a pleased squeal from the child.

He made to leave then, but precisely at that moment the rest of Fia's family arrived on the scene, her sisters and mother and aunts, and Lovino was thoroughly embarrassed. He became even more so when Fia cheerfully introduced him as "The Great Signor Vargas."

All of a sudden gasps reverberated through the camp.

"Vargas?  _The_ Vargas?"

"Of course!"

"Lovino Vargas, I hear—"

"The very one? Who disappeared?"

"Yes," Lovino sighed. "I came back. I'm here to help, all right? There are pirates about. Keep quiet, stay safe. I'm going back to the village."

"But they've already asked the city to send help! Don't go, stay with us here," a young girl shouted flirtatiously, to some catcalls and sounds of laughter. Lovino was careful to keep his face expressionless.

"Protecting you all comes first," he said as politely and stiffly as possible, and left without further ado. Distantly he heard the others entreating him to come back, but he refused to answer.

Perhaps they'd remember him, perhaps they wouldn't. News of him might well reach Venice soon, and he could only hope he'd be able to return.

If he survived long enough to do so.

The trees seemed to close behind him as he walked, slowly but surely pushing him back to the village turned battlefield.

And then, ahead of him, someone yelled.

He froze and listened. The shout was quickly followed by the high shrill of metal clashing against metal. His heart gave a little flop and he rushed to the edge of the wood, swinging himself up a nearby tree and parting the branches slightly to look out.

Below him, beyond him, all was chaos.

Down at the village, the pirates had arrived—the fighting had begun. He had not been able to return in time, and for that he was angry.

Lovino cursed under his breath and, with shaking hands, fitted an arrow to his bowstring. A second later he let it fly.

He watched as his arrow impaled a particularly strong pirate who had backed a young man into a corner. The scoundrel roared in pain but did not fall; another arrow did the trick.

Although he hadn't moved from his perch, Lovino felt his breath growing short.

For the first time, he had killed a man—and from the way things were unfolding, there might well be more.

He had some difficulty distinguishing the pirates from the villagers, for they all wore the same type of old cotton cloth, and the sandy ground did not help visibility from afar. At last Lovino gave up shooting.

Throwing one last glance over the village, his eyes latched on a flash of bright fabric and he caught sight of the brown-haired man, sword in right hand, his left hanging almost limply by his side. Only one man was fool enough to fight in such a way.

Carriedo.

Lovino leapt off the tree and dashed forward, drawing his sword. The fighting continued, and from the wood it was as though he were peering from a separate sphere of the universe, but then he was in the fray and surrounded on all sides by angry men.

"You're mad," he heard a man shout, in Italian, to a pirate slowly closing in on him. "Get the fuck out of here, you son of a bitch!"

He had his back to a house, and though he was partly covered in blood, he still stood steady, sword extended, ready to cut if the pirate came any closer. Nevertheless Lovino rushed at the assailant from behind.

"You heard him, bastard! Get the hell out!"

The pirate turned, and upon seeing Lovino he sneered.

"Not until we get what we came for!"

Without hesitation Lovino ran him through, and watched in horror as the man bled on the floor in front of him.

The other Italian stared at Lovino in alarm.

"You weren't supposed to come back!" he cried. "Tommaso wanted you to stay with them—"

He, too, fell to the ground, clutching his side. Lovino ran to him.

"Are you all right?" he shouted. But the large wound he saw told Lovino there wasn't much hope.

"I—I'm fine," gasped the man. He was young; perhaps even younger than Lovino himself, and his eyes were dark and deep and desperate. He seemed to know his life was draining away before his eyes. "Tell—tell my family—tell my Bianca it'll be—okay..."

His eyes closed and he fell limp in Lovino's arms.

Lovino was still for what seemed like a long time, staring at the nameless man's face. It was pale, pale as snow, and looked even younger in death. He couldn't have been more than twenty.

Slowly Lovino stood and pulled the body to the safety of an old house. There he dragged a blanket over it, watching as the fabric immediately dampened with blood. Finally he covered the man's face; it was the least he could do as a bystander.

But he couldn't bring himself to leave.

"Rest in peace," he whispered at last, and then stepped back out into the fighting and the killing.

He didn't know why a lump rose in his throat, or why the emotion threatened to overwhelm him. It wasn't as though he could have helped. Nothing he did could have saved the young man. And yet he felt despondent and useless.

Lovino paused at the doorway, taking in everything before him.

 _This_  was what the pirates had done.

 _This_  was what Carriedo had ordered them to do.

It was terrible, horrible—and unforgivable.

He threw himself back into the fray, fighting with a vengeance he did not know he had in him. Wounds were secondary; his first thought was revenge. Revenge for the unknown young man who had died, for the villagers who would have to make themselves new homes, for all the people who had suffered at the hands of the invading scoundrels.

So the pirates bore the brunt of Lovino's wrath. For they gave no mercy—why should he be any different?

Several more men met their ends at his hands, and Lovino thought nothing of it.

Then, in the midst of the scuffling and shouting and the groans of the wounded and dying, a familiar voice rang out, cool and clear.

"I order you all to surrender, now. Give up what you have, give us the prisoner Lovino Vargas, and you will be spared."

Miraculously, the fighting seemed to stop, even if it was only for a second. Men turned to the source of the voice, the brightly-clothed figure standing in the center of the village square.

Lovino did too.

For a moment there was silence, and then someone shouted:

"Never!"

It sounded like Tommaso, but Lovino couldn't be sure. At first Carriedo gave no reply, and then he spoke.

"This is the second time I have warned you. There will not be a third."

He had to put an end to all this, right now. Before any more blood was shed, before anything worse could happen.

It all depended on him.

Ignoring the other Italians' shouts of outrage, he elbowed his way to the square and strode out to face the pirate captain.

"No!" the same voice bellowed again, and this time Lovino recognized it as the old man's. But there was nothing he could say.

Instead, Lovino balled his fist and smashed it into Carriedo's face.

Instantly the entire crowd rose in an uproar. Lovino felt strong arms grabbing him and blows landing on him from behind—of course pirates were bound to defend their captains, no matter how fucking wicked they were—but he didn't give a shit. He could hear Carriedo shouting for them to let go of him, and after a few painful moments his order was finally carried out.

A slightly bloodier Lovino watched him with narrowed eyes and to his satisfaction beheld a rather large bruise spreading across the pirate captain's jaw.

The Italian let out a sneer.

"You're the lowest, most good-for-nothing little motherfucker I've ever seen," he spat angrily. "And the only reason I go with you is because of  _them_." He gestured to the Italians beyond, ignoring their looks of horror. "I will go with you—as long as you and your fellow sons of bitches leave and never set  _one fucking toe_  on this place ever again. Or I'll raise the whole of Italy against you, and when Lovino Vargas makes a fucking promise he fucking  _keeps it_."

Remarkably, Carriedo was silent.

 _"UNDERSTAND_!?"

The pirate captain's green eyes, greener than the forest on a quiet night, met Lovino's. Within them was an indefinable emotion.

"...  _Sì_ , Romano, I understand," he said quietly.

And Lovino froze.

* * *

None of his plans had ever involved being out at sea again; he'd believed that after Gallipoli he would remain in Italy, safe from violence and violent thoughts of pirates. But of course nothing ever turned out the way he expected it to.

It turned out that a nice little armed force from the city had arrived just in time, as reinforcements. Along with the villagers, they would have outnumbered the pirates fairly well. And so, like the cowards they were, the invaders had seen them coming from afar, hurriedly taken what they could, and fled to the ship like a bunch of sissies.

Lovino had been with them. Perhaps, if he'd been able to stall for time, the others could have rescued him.

But it was just as well that he was here.

Because in front of him, there stood the one man he thought he hated, the one man who could possibly arouse so much conflict in him—and that man was Carriedo.

Or was he?

Lovino had to find out, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

The pirate captain's back was still turned to him; he was watching the Italian coast fade behind the waves yet again, from the safety of his cabin window. Lovino had invited himself inside and was waiting—had been waiting—for him to turn his fucking head and face him so that they could  _talk,_ as reasonable men were supposed to do. At last the Italian lost his patience.

"Carriedo," he said loudly.

And the damn man stopped him.

"I think there's been enough formality," he said in that same quiet voice from earlier, positively calculated to piss off Lovino. "Just call me Antonio."

But Lovino didn't give one shit whether he was Carriedo or Antonio or Signor Asshole of the Seas. He was angry, and he wanted answers.

"So then,  _Antonio_ ,"he snarled. "Tell me. What the  _fuck_ is wrong with you?"

Carr—no,  _Antonio_ —turned around at last and raised a brow.

"You're asking me?"

"No shit, and you just so  _happen_ to be my long-lost  _friend_." Lovino was having a hard time keeping his voice under control. "What in hell were you hiding from me all this time? Was this another of your little pirate captain games? 'Let's All Trick the Italian Prisoner and See If He Finds Out'? Is that it?"

He thought he saw something flash in Antonio's eyes. Something akin to anger and—almost imperceptibly—disbelief.

Oh, but what a surprise.

Had he really thought Lovino would be happy to see him... like  _this?_

A pirate captain? A hardened killer? Someone who kidnapped people and practiced robbery as a pastime?

How could he possibly be the same bright, happy, innocent Spanish boy Lovino had known from childhood?

"I wasn't hiding anything," said Antonio at last, evenly, his smile rather tight and artificial. "To tell the truth, I thought  _you_ were."

Without warning he thrust out his hand, and from it something golden dangled.

Lovino's necklace.

The Italian stared at it, still and silent.

Antonio chuckled bitterly and withdrew the golden chain.

"Remember when I asked you about yourself?" he went on. "You never answered. But you had an idea who I was, too, didn't you? It sure seemed like you did... and yet  _you never said a damn thing_."

Accusation shot from his eyes in angry waves. They seemed to pierce right into Lovino's heart, and he remembered. It was true, he realized. He had had his suspicions all along—and yet he had never confronted Antonio, never tried to come to terms with what had been right in front of him from the very beginning.

He faltered. "I-if you were me, do you think you would!?"

" _I_  might. Just so someone who's been thinking about me for the past... oh, thirteen years could have some peace of mind."

Lovino's mouth fell open of its own accord, and he found he couldn't speak for several moments. But Antonio's expression didn't change.

It was still the same solemn, grave,  _sad_  face one would wear to a funeral.

And it didn't look right on him, not him, the normally cheerful man that he was. Lovino found himself missing the smile, the laugh, the flirtatious looks. Sadness was never meant to dwell on his face.

"Y- _you_..."

"Yes, I." The captain shrugged a shoulder. "Even pirates have memories, don't they? But let's talk about you. Surely  _you,_ Lovino, would at least  _try_ to remember someone who meant something to you?"

His voice was horrible to hear—low and flat and  _resigned._ It was as though he'd accepted that the past was the past, that there was nothing else between them. But it couldn't be. It must be someone else speaking through him, some wicked ventriloquist.

Lovino wanted to say something. One word hung on his tongue, begging, burning to slip out—and finally it did.

"Toni."

A small shudder ran through Antonio, and something flickered through his eyes. The terrible mask of emotionlessness quivered, cracked; then, slowly, it faded away before Lovino. A shred of feeling had come back to him.

Slowly Antonio came closer and put his hands on Lovino's shoulders.

"Roma," he said haltingly, as though he were still learning to speak. His voice stumbled over the two familiar syllables, and the Spaniard closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again. "... Romano."

Lovino said nothing.

"You remember, don't you?" Antonio whispered, almost desperately. "You remember...  _me_?"

Of course he did. How couldn't he? The boy had been in his thoughts day and night, and, to some extent, the man as well. But oh, how difficult they were to reconcile.

The two stood on opposite ends of a spectrum. One a playful child, the other a ruthless pirate.

Where, along this line, did the real Antonio come in?

"I... thought you were dead," he said at last, and Antonio's eyes clouded over.

"... I thought I was, too."

* * *

_They had somehow managed to find their way down to the beach, that sunny day in June. The water was clear and cold, and the little Italian boy enjoyed himself immensely, having never been to such a beautiful place. Toni watched him, quietly content._

_Romano looked so angelic when he smiled._

_"You don't like swimming?" he shouted suddenly from the water._

_"Can't," Toni yelled back, and Roma laughed at him before tumbling back onto the sand._

_"Let's do something you_ can  _do, then!"_

_Toni grabbed his hand then, and they raced happily across the beach, Roma occasionally tripping and falling. At last Toni carried him piggyback and began walking slowly back the way they came._

_"Are we going already?" Romano whined._

_"The sun's going to set soon. And you need to change your clothes." But for Toni it was more from personal reasons than otherwise. Darkness on the beach bothered him now; for it was on one such occasion, not too long ago, that his father had left on his small ship and never returned._

_There had been a lot of bad business involved; some men had come and threatened him for something Toni didn't understand, and the next evening his father had gone. It had all been at night._

_He sensed that somehow it wasn't a good omen._

_Romano was still complaining, but at least he was listening._

_"Let's come here again soon," he pleaded._

_"All right." But Toni's heart wasn't in it. He thought he could hear the sound of footsteps in the distance, that weren't theirs._

_"What's with you?"_

_"Wait. Be quiet—"_

_The footsteps—for indeed they were footsteps—were getting louder. And faster._

_To his shock he discerned some of the same men who had accosted his father, the ones who had threatened to make him pay._

_Suddenly a bad feeling came over him._

_"Go hide over there," he said to Roma, and pushed him toward a small cluster of bushes nearby. "Don't come out unless I tell you to."_

_"What?" Roma's eyes were wide and scared._

_"Don't ask. Just listen to me, all right? Be quiet. Don't come out. If something happens, run back and find whoever owns this place, and tell them to take you home. Do you understand?"_

_Romano nodded fearfully._

_There wasn't enough space for the two of them, and Toni could already see the men approaching. As there was nothing else to do, he walked straight toward them. At least Roma would be safe..._

_Hopefully._

_"Little boy, where's your father?" one of them asked. His voice made Toni want to throw up._

_"I don't know," he said as loudly and clearly as he could manage, even though he had trouble keeping his voice steady. "What do you want?"_

_"We only need a little something from your father," the man said. "Payment. He has not returned everything he's promised."_

_"I don't know what you're talking about."_

_"He entrusted you with some of his secrets. Kindly tell us."_

_"I don't_  know _."_

_"Your sister said the same, and that did not go very well, I am afraid."_

_His breath caught in his throat._

_No, no,_ no.

_Not her, not her, anyone but her—_

_"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER!?"_

_"Nothing," smiled the man._

_"IF YOU—IF YOU LAID EVEN ONE FINGER ON HER I'M—I'M GOING TO—"_

_"Going to what, little boy?" They were laughing at him._ Laughing.  _"You don't have to worry about her, she's in a better place now. She won't have to worry anymore about her irresponsible father and his problems."_

_Toni stopped._

_His heart also seemed to stop._

_"You—you—" He could barely speak through the tears that obscured his vision. "You BASTARDS! You're going to PAY!"_

_He rushed at them, not caring that they were all several times bigger than him, that they outnumbered him five to one, that they were armed and evil and dangerous—he wanted to hurt them. Hurt them, make them bleed, make them beg for mercy. Anything to make them regret what they had done. Anything to reverse time and save her and save everyone else._

_But the first man simply picked him up like he was a small bag of sand and laughed as Toni wriggled in the strong grasp. He walked forward, so far out that Toni could hear crumbling beneath his feet. They were on the edge of a cliff, and the sea spread out before him, a threatening blanket of blue-black._

_He let go. Toni screamed and fell and by some miracle his hands caught onto the rock. He hung on for dear life as the men watched him from above._

_"What... what do you..." he tried to say, but his words were being blown away by the wind. One man bent down and smiled, an evil mocking smile._

_"Any last words, little boy?"_

_"I—I hate you! All of you! And I will haunt you forever!_ Forever—"

_The man stepped back and kicked him. There was a scream—his or Roma's, he couldn't tell—and then he was falling, falling, falling..._

_The ocean with its wide, dark, gaping mouth met him, and then he felt himself being sucked down, down into the everlasting blackness._

* * *

"But I didn't die," Antonio said tiredly. "Some fisherman saw me fall, and saved me. I lost my memory for a while. I didn't even remember you until they showed me the necklace."

Lovino could only listen, silent.

"I remembered after a while, of course. Then I asked around and I learned—my father was a pirate. He had a lot of children by many different women; my sister and I were his last. He kept us with him and went into hiding, but of course they found him. Who knows where he is now... he's probably died. Everyone died except me."

He sighed. He looked worn out, more exhausted than Lovino had ever seen him. His once-shining eyes looked strained, his mouth struggled to smile, but it could not.

"Why... why did you become a pirate, then?"

Antonio chuckled halfheartedly. "The same reason all young men do when they lose their loved ones. Revenge. What else?"

"You could have stopped..."

"Perhaps, if I hadn't had my father as an example." Antonio shrugged. "Anyway, these were the men who took me in. They promised money and adventure and, well, what could a poor vengeful boy like me have done? So I sailed with them. I found the men who murdered my sister, killed them, and thought it wise to stay with the pirates after that. It's been about thirteen years since then."

"Thirteen."

" _Sí..._  I'm twenty-six now. What a waste of a life, don't you agree?" He passed a hand over his forehead, and seemed to want to change the subject. "But what about you, Lovi? Why aren't you Romano anymore?"

"I changed my name," said Lovino quietly. "No one minded. And I didn't like being called Roma... after..."

_After you were gone._

Antonio must have sensed what he'd left unsaid, because he smiled. It was a small, sad smile.

"Well, I'm back now. And I think I still need to return something."

He held up the golden chain with its little charm, and Lovino laughed weakly as Antonio stepped forward and reached both arms around his neck. It seemed to take forever for him to put it on, but Lovino found he didn't mind. Up close he saw Antonio clearly for the first time—saw the way his eyes shone, brighter than gems in the sunlight; the way his face glowed even in the dimness of the cabin, reminding him of the little Toni from long ago. And just visible beneath Antonio's collar was the flash of gold that had drawn them both together.

At last the Spaniard finished, but he did not move away. Green eyes locked with hazel, and neither broke the gaze.

"I missed you," Antonio whispered, but it was only a feeble explanation for the way he was looking at Lovino.

For a long time they stood there, so close together their faces were almost touching. Immediately some impulse raced through the Italian, a sudden urge to perhaps reach up around Antonio's neck and pull and close the distance and make up for all the years they had lost. And then he might just be able to forget and fix things so that they were all right again.

But he didn't.


	9. Heart of Glass

Ever since that fateful day a strange feeling had taken hold of him. He felt trapped, as though by some large malicious spider-web, forced to look out at the rest of the world while bound hands and feet. Immobile, helpless, numb—the sort of numbness that accompanies a horrible deed, a major decision, a confession.

But he had not made so much as a confession. Not even close. If anything, the talk with Lovino had simply been an explanation, a tying up of loose ends, nothing more. He knew he should be grateful. So many days he had passed, wondering if he'd ever see those hazel eyes again, touch that expressive face, hear once more that strong young voice that meant everything it said. It had been so long. So long. Had he not captured Lovino that day they might never have met again.

And yet, whenever he thought of them both—what life meant when both Lovino and Antonio were considered—an almost crushing sensation would settle upon him. He always regretted thinking, because that led to the obvious conclusion: nothing could ever happen between them. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was a pirate captain and Lovino Vargas, no doubt, a wealthy landowner. It was only by chance they had reunited but perhaps it was better if they had not. Lovino didn't belong on this ship, or with Antonio. He belonged in Italy, beautiful Italy, among the shining spires of Venice; he could have been there, free, had it not been for the pirates.

The pirates who, incidentally, were still traveling at full speed to the City of Lights.

Perhaps—if Lovino decided to escape  _then_ —perhaps no one would stop him this time. He had his freedom to think of, his future, his family. He had so much to live for. So much Antonio could not possibly understand because he was a pirate, and pirates were a different people altogether.

His thoughts assailed him all the time and soon he began to lose interest in many things. Eating and drinking became secondary. His duties seemed suddenly meaningless. He found himself apathetic, blindly accepting, having lost his direction—unable to respond or reason or feel.

But what was absence of feeling to a pirate? Who had ever said pirates could feel, or had hearts to feel with, for that matter? And even if they did—those unlucky bastards—the odds were always against them. They were sucked down into the deep dark ocean quicker than anybody else.

_El corazón del pirata no cambia._

_The heart of a pirate does not change._

He knew the old sayings were always true. Who was he to argue against them? And it was no matter; because, for about thirteen years, he had completely forgotten what it meant to have a heart. To be sure, there had been a slight hesitation—a constricting of the chest—a small prick of guilt… or was it regret? It had happened when he beheld the looks on those wicked men's faces, the way some had tried to weasel out of death, the way some had pleaded, right before he'd lifted that cold blade in cold blood and slit their throats one by one.

Merciless.

And then it had come down to that last man. That final man, nameless to this very day, who had died unknown, alone. That very same man who had once lifted a struggling Toni over the crashing waves and laughed while sending the boy to his doom.

He had had blue eyes. Antonio remembered this well because even in their last moments, those blue eyes had watched him with absolute calm.

"Here's one who isn't scared of death," he had said, smilingly, to the villain he had bound in ropes. The man replied with the utmost gravity.

"You are right—I am not. I have never been less afraid of death in my life."

Antonio had pressed the knife to his neck, closer, noting how he did not flinch in the slightest. In that moment he rejoiced in his own power—such supreme power over another, helpless human being.

"Have you ever thought about Hell? They'll give you a nice warm welcome there, I'm sure—they should. For people like you."

"Oh, they will welcome me. You, as well."

"Me." Antonio scoffed and forced the blade deeper into exposed skin. "No, not me," he corrected, observing the blood begin to flow under the sharp edge. "Why would it be me? I merely sought justice. It was my right. And here I am, collecting what I came to collect. You are paying for the lives you took. It was meant to be this way."

"True," the man shrugged. "But think about it—you are taking lives too."

"For justice."

A snort. "Justice... but that is merely subjective. Anyone can call justice and kill someone."

"And it is by subjectivity, on behalf of my kin, that I kill you."

"In cold blood."

"Perhaps."

The man laughed—cheerfully, without a care in the world. It was as though death did not worry him, could not touch him, would not bother him in the least, debauchee and criminal though he was. At last he quieted—his clear blue eyes piercing into Antonio's with a chilling sapphire smile.

"Then you, my friend, are no different from me," he whispered. And before Antonio could react he had flung himself forward onto the blade.

Everything had been red. Antonio had seen red. Red sunset, red blood, red draping his knife and his hands and his clothes. Everywhere.

That day he had killed.

Three men in cold blood, one man by accident.

It amounted to four. Four acts of justice, four murders—what did it matter how they called it? His goal had been accomplished. He had gotten his revenge. He should have been satisfied, triumphant—but he had not been.

And afterward he had chosen to sail with the pirates.

And afterward he had killed even more. Killed in cold blood.

He knew where he was now—knee-deep in his twenties and knee-deep in vice and knee-deep in death.

Sometimes he would reminisce on his childhood—bitterly, almost unconsciously, but he would do it. He would remember that blissful, innocent time—how people had appreciated him, called him the light of the sun, praised him and told him he would go far.

Oh, but he certainly  _had_  gone far.

Very far indeed.

* * *

Eventually, Lovino in turn told him his own side of the story.

As Antonio had long suspected, he hailed from a family of nobles and had spent much of his life in luxury. Everything came easily to him; he never had to work because there was no reason to, he never had to worry about getting enough to eat or obtaining new clothes or any such concerns of the peasantry. It sounded like a perfect life—just like the life Antonio had long dreamed for himself.

But Romano, as he was known back then, lost his parents to some mysterious illness. With his siblings he was shipped off to live with their Nonno, Romulus Vargas, in a grand villa on the outskirts of Venice. It was from this strict and confining household that Romano longed to free himself. And he did so, meeting young Toni in the process—their escapades bringing them closer together.

After the Spanish boy's supposed death, however—and Lovino said little on this subject—he had withdrawn into himself, grown up in solitude, ignoring the trivial affairs of high society. His Nonno eventually passed away, lost out at sea, bequeathing to him the Vargas estate and much wealth. He did nothing with it. He lived alone, rejoicing in his loneliness; and he changed his name from Romano to Lovino.

This was the very same Lovino who had gone to Sicily the day the pirates arrived. The same Lovino who was captured, the same Lovino for a few hours after that—and then he had, subtly, begun to change.

Just as Antonio had begun to change.

Now an entirely different Lovino Vargas sat before him, having finished his story almost unwillingly. They sat together in the dark of Antonio's chamber, one small candle threatening to flicker out before them, buffeted by the relentless sea breeze.

Antonio watched him, still feeling he should keep silent, unconsciously expecting something more. He thought he detected some secret in the Italian's eyes, hovering on his lips, but Lovino said nothing. Instead his eyes traveled beyond Antonio to rest on the wall behind them.

"That's your sister, isn't it?" he said suddenly.

The startled Spaniard turned to look. He was met with the familiar picture in its golden frame—the picture of that beautiful, green-eyed girl smiling her all-knowing smile, the girl he had loved and missed over the years.

"Yes, she is," he answered. "Her name was Isabella." There was a silence; he didn't know what to say. They both remembered what he had said about her fate. "... I loved her very much," he said finally.

Lovino's expression held something like compassion.

"... I'm sorry."

"Don't be..."

"I am. I would've been the same way if I were you."

Suddenly something in Antonio's chest tightened and he couldn't go on talking, not about  _that._

"You have a sister too, don't you?" he asked instead. A nod came from the now-quiet Italian. "Brother?" he tried.

Another nod.

Their eyes did not meet. The faint candlelight painted two somber faces on the glass of the frame.

"Do you... love them, too?"

The question was natural; it had been on the tip of his tongue the entire time. And yet Antonio's voice seemed to turn it into something different. Lovino's eyes, shining golden before the dancing flame, connected with his. For the first time in five minutes he spoke.

"Yes," he said quietly, almost hesitantly. "Yes... I suppose I loved them."

Something wavered in his face and he averted his gaze; Antonio saw his hands were shaking ever so slightly. Gently the Spaniard reached forward and took them. The Italian did not respond. It was obvious that his hands had once been those of a nobleman, unaccustomed to work—but now they bore as many calluses as anyone else's, thanks to pirate-ship labor. Nevertheless Antonio caressed them, softly.

When he made to entwine their fingers together, something came over Lovino. Suddenly—as though losing his balance—he pitched forward into the Spaniard, his arms finding their way around Antonio's shoulders. He breathed harshly and did not speak and did not shift from where he stood. After a long moment Antonio moved to hold him. Not tightly and not loosely, but just right, almost the way he would embrace a long-lost brother, yet not quite.

Something stirred in his chest as he stood there with Lovino in his arms. Something welled up inside him, and he found words lingering on his tongue and his mouth opening to speak.

But he didn't. Instead he pulled Lovino closer and held him tighter and did not let go, because that was what any good friend in his place would have done.

* * *

That night he had a dream.

It was afternoon—a very bright and hot afternoon, particularly on the  _Trinidad_  because she had so few portholes, and he was going down to the galley to bother Lovino, out of habit. He felt particularly slow and sluggish in his dream, and it took him a long time to find the door he wanted. As soon as he did he burst through it without the slightest hesitation.

"LOVI!"

The Italian screamed and dropped his ladle and overturned his pot, spilling pasta all over the floor.

"What the FUCK, Antonio!?"

He could see Lovino was angry—actually, beyond angry—because his work had been interrupted and ruined. The food must really mean a lot to him, Antonio observed, without any particular remorse. Nevertheless he stepped forward to help clean up, and found himself rebuffed by the Italian's fuming face.

"I'm sorry," he said, because that was what anyone would have said. It was nice to watch the fury slowly dissipate.

"You had better be," Lovino growled. "Now fucking pick it up for me."

Antonio did so, and stood by while the Italian continued to cook. The new pasta smelled better and better, and it turned red when Lovino poured tomato sauce on top of it.

Red, he reflected dully. Almost as red as the Italian's cheeks. Red was such a pleasing color.

Without really thinking he leaned forward and slipped his arms around Lovino's waist.

"H-hey! What the hell are you doing!?" Lovino struggled halfheartedly. He shivered when Antonio moved up close against him. "A-Antonio, what—"

He had started pressing little kisses around Lovino's neck and up to his jaw. Soon he reached those delightfully red cheeks and kissed them, too. The Italian made a small suppressed noise and Antonio responded by capturing Lovino's lips with his own.

It was so sudden and so pleasant that he lost his head for a full thirty seconds. He couldn't stop kissing Lovino, couldn't stop holding him, couldn't. The Italian was so warm, his face so red, his lips so soft, and he moaned. An unknown urge came over Antonio, and he suddenly wanted to grab the Italian and devour him and never, ever let him out of his sight for the rest of his life. And then he felt himself being pushed away forcefully, his back hitting the table behind them.

"Wh-what the  _fuck_  is wrong with you!?" Lovino shouted, his voice shaking. There was real fear in his eyes. "What the hell do you want!?"

"I want you," Antonio's mouth said automatically, with a dull voice. The Italian backed away slowly. "I want you to be mine, forever and always. Only mine. Will you promise me that, Lovino?"

"NO!"

The emphatic answer pierced all the way through him, into his chest, breaking the numbness which had long gripped him.

"No...?"

 _"No_!" The Italian was trembling, moving farther away with every second. "Never—not anyone like you! You're a pirate—and you have no heart!  _You will never learn to love, ever_!"

He felt as though his heart stopped in that very moment. Lovino was still standing there, watching him, and Antonio must have weakened considerably because the Italian started laughing. Lovino was laughing at him. A loud guffaw that turned into a cackle and then his face began to change. It began to turn darker and fuller, the eyes narrowing and blackening and filling with malice, and at last standing before him was not Lovino Vargas but the old hateful woman Abuela.

"So, Cap'n, we meet again," she said spitefully.

"Wh-what—"

Antonio could not speak. The sight of her was enough to root him to his place with fear, and he did not know why. He did not remember doing anything to her. He thought he had not done wrong.

"Remember what I told ye, Cap'n? Remember how I fell an' died an' the blood spilt out on the groun'?" Her face leered at him; she grinned the evilest of grins. "I know ye liked it."

"Shut up," Antonio whispered.

"I know ye like blood, Cap'n. Don't lie."

"Shut  _up._ "

"I'll give ye some, since ye asked so nicely."

And she snatched a knife off the counter and plunged it into her chest. Her blood flowed freely—red red blood, splattering and staining the wooden floor and slowly, slowly spreading to his feet.

"Remember, Cap'n," she said softly, " _there be a curse on this ship, a curse o' blood. And ye'll pay for it sooner or later_."

"No!"

 _"There be a curse_..."

"NO!" he shouted. "NO! SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP—" Antonio no longer knew what he was doing; he dropped and curled up in a corner, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to protect himself from the redness that dripped and crawled toward him, that threatened to swallow him in its evil embrace.

 _"A curse of blood... A curse of blood_!"

"NO!" he screamed, and that was when he woke up, drenched in sweat and tangled in his own bedsheets. He shook uncontrollably and he could barely move. For a long time he lay there, his heart pounding restlessly and his thoughts in shambles.

He had had many nightmares before but none could compare to this one. It was as though Fate were warning him—that he would meet a bad end sooner or later. A comforting thought indeed. Not for the first time Antonio wondered whether it might be better to quit piracy altogether. But he knew that even if he did now, nothing would ever make up for the ones who had died because of him.

The men who had murdered Isabella, he did not regret killing. Perhaps he never would. But the others—the innocent passengers on all those ships they had plundered, the captains of those ships, the villagers of Gallipoli and still others…

Abuela had been telling the truth, he thought with a shiver. It might not be long before he and the _Trinidad_ 's crew would have to pay for their deeds—just like other heartless criminals.

The only thing they  _could_  do now was be prepared.

* * *

A few days ago some scatterbrained pirate had proposed a celebration—an absurd idea in the extreme. But absurd ideas had a way of catching on aboard the  _Trinidad_ , and it wasn't long before stolen instruments were being dusted off, rusty singing voices retuned, and blades being sharpened for knife-throwing games. Most of the pirates were in high spirits; even Eduardo the stoic quartermaster seemed less expressionless than usual.

"Don't forget, we be needin' twice the amount o' food tonight," he reminded Lovino in what was probably meant to be a friendly manner. As it was he failed rather miserably. The Italian wasn't fooled; he could see the threat in his eyes.

Being the ship's cook was convenient in more ways than one, but sometimes the cons outweighed the pros. And now was one of those times.

Although the pirates themselves were looking forward to the festivities, Lovino could hardly join them. He knew exactly what they were celebrating—their successful little raid in Gallipoli (the source of their extra supplies, no doubt), and their high hopes for financial gain in Venice. They always hoped, but Lovino personally did not place much faith in them.

He also had another reason to be gloomy: no one had come to visit him in the past three days. Not that people usually did, but of course there was that one man whose name began with Antonio and ended with Carriedo, who particularly enjoyed barging in on him to bother him and hinder Lovino in his work. But he had stopped his visits, and last Lovino heard he had been feeling unwell.

The news had given him a strangely unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach, almost like worry—but of course he wasn't worried. Antonio could take care of himself, he thought uncertainly, and hoped he was right. Yet the queer feeling continued to gnaw at him. Lovino had still cooked all the captain's favorite food, and tried his damned best to send it up personally, but the other pirates had made sure that didn't happen.

He thought he knew what it was all about.

By the time the festivities began he had done his work and was ready to sneak up to the captain's cabin. He had already managed to exit the galley without anyone noticing. Then along the way he passed the mess hall and noticed a lone figure, dressed in his usual flamboyant doublet, sitting in the very back and leaning against the wall with a mug in hand.

Cautiously Lovino approached him.

"Hey," he said awkwardly. Antonio glanced up and finally saw him.

"Why aren't you with them?"

" _I_  should be asking you that," Lovino retorted. The pirate didn't respond and shifted his eyes back to his beer. "What the hell's wrong with you? I heard you were sick. What did you do to yourself?"

Antonio did indeed look unwell. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked as though he had not been getting enough sleep. Yet his whole face held an unspeakable tiredness quite different from ordinary fatigue.

"I'm all right," he said quietly. "You don't need to worry about me, Lovi."

The uncomfortable feeling had wormed its way once more into Lovino's chest, and he tried not to let it show on his face.

"Like hell I'm believing that. Tell me."

"It's nothing."

Lovino sat down beside him and fixed him with his strongest glare. "Antonio Fucking Carriedo, it isn't nothing to  _me."_

No, he wasn't worried.

_Not at all, damn it._

For a moment surprise flickered in Antonio's eyes as he understood, but it was all gone in a second. "Lovino, you should leave."

"Why?"

"I'm drunk. Aren't you scared I might hurt you or kill you or something?"

His face was plain tired honesty, painful to see. Lovino swallowed hard, and from some internal urging, stood his ground.

"If you do then you're not Antonio Fernandez Carriedo."

Antonio smiled halfheartedly. "What if I'm not?"

His voice seemed to hang in thin air for a fraction of a second, and yet somehow an age. They stared at each other, one a Spaniard, one an Italian, as though they were seeing each other for the first time. And in a way, they were.

"Impossible," Lovino said finally, with the feeling that he had just made a weighty, irreversible decision. "Now give me some of that beer."

He found the barrel from which the Spaniard had obtained it and poured himself a drink. But while he was busy he failed to notice the look in Antonio's eyes. A look that was thoughtful and at the same time full of longing.

* * *

Three hours later the two of them were drunk—very, very drunk.

Lovino had draped himself across the table while Antonio had propped his feet up, teetering dangerously backward. Neither found his position ridiculous; each was immersed in his own thoughts.

"Hey, Antonio," slurred the Italian into the table. The Spaniard looked up sluggishly.

"What is it?"

"I'm sorry."

Antonio squinted at him, but from where he sat it was hard to see Lovino clearly, especially since the Italian's face was mostly hidden from view. "What did you say?"

"I said  _I'm sorry_ ," Lovino muttered, his face flushed. "I'm sorry for that time… when I yelled at you… before I r-ran away. And for... punching you. I didn't mean it…"

"You did all that?" he asked, genuinely confused. He had quite forgotten. Lovino lifted his head to glare at him and thumped his fist on the table.

"I did, you asshole! Are you gonna forgive me or not!?"

"I forgive you."

"About fucking time."

Antonio looked up at the ceiling and sighed loudly. "I'm sorry too, Lovi."

The Italian's head shot up quicker than lightning.

"What the hell for?"

"For... kidnapping you. And making you work. And... all the bad things I did." His heart felt heavy, somehow. "Do you hate me for that? Or dislike me? Or anything at all...?"

Lovino blinked at him, very confused and very drunk. "Why the fuck would I hate you?"

"So you don't?" Even in his inebriated state Antonio felt suddenly hopeful. "You don't hate me?"

"You're... my friend." Lovino's voice seemed to struggle at the word 'friend.' "I don't think... friends... hate each other."

Antonio gazed at him for a long time, long enough for the Italian to become uncomfortable and distract himself with more beer. Very carefully he reached out and allowed his hand to touch Lovino's cheek. The Italian did not move away but he flushed bright red. His face was warm, almost feverishly warm.

"I don't hate you either, Lovi," Antonio whispered so that only the two of them could hear. "I don't hate you… I like you a lot."

And somehow that admission made him sad.

* * *

Beyond that point neither of them remembered anything else.

But when the first mate Emilio ran in and awakened them, Antonio had somehow ended up on the floor while Lovino was stretched out on the table. There was no time to worry about that, however, because the headaches assailed them immediately and the first mate was beside himself.

"Cap'n! Cap'n!" he cried, running to Antonio and helping him up. "I was lookin' for ye for such a long time—" He wrung his hands, looking incredibly nervous as Antonio finally raised himself to a sitting position and held his head. The pirate captain felt as though he had been pummeled with a sledgehammer.

"What is it?" he asked, and winced at the sound of his voice. "Is there… something wrong?"

"Diego at the crow's nest spied a ship off to the west. Still far away but it's gainin' on us. Methinks it's been followin' us for a while now. It's a large ship. Got the skull an' crossbones too, an' there's a mermaid at the prow…."

Suspicion suddenly took hold of Antonio.

"Is it… it can't be…"

"Methinks it is," Emilio said worriedly. "The Kirkland ship."

Immediately Antonio stood and rushed from the room.


	10. When Night Falls

Impatiently Antonio strode across the deck, seeing no one, speaking to no one. His men parted respectfully before him, and someone placed in his hand a spyglass, which he lifted to eye level. But even without it he could recognize the faraway ship at first glance.

The  _Rising Sun_ it was called—a romantic name coined by a decidedly unromantic man. Arthur Kirkland was well known as one of the most fearsome pirates of the Seven Seas, the most wanted man in Europe. Rumor had it that he was an English privateer gone rogue; he took no prisoners and brooked no dissent, and though he had only one eye he made use of it in ways no others could. Deception and daring were among his main weapons, and there was no doubt that they had served him well in his notorious career.

So if it was a fight he was looking for now—by all indications a likely occurrence—then it would be quite a fight indeed.

Though the sun was beginning to set, the ship still appeared clear as day before Antonio's enhanced eyesight. He scoured every inch of it—the skull and crossbones flag waving merrily at the crow's nest, the apparently new canvas sails, the elegantly carved green mermaid and the blond-haired men running about on deck. The pirates he observed with particular care, but nowhere did he catch a glimpse of feathered hat or black eyepatch. Kirkland would have been difficult to spot in any case—he was a master of subterfuge after all.

The Spanish pirate captain felt his headache worsen slightly as he straightened up, and after a long moment's thought he called for the new navigator, a lanky man by the name of Alfonso. He appeared posthaste and stood by nervously, awaiting orders.

"How long till we reach land?" Antonio asked quickly.

The questioned man answered in short jerky tones, obviously intending to please but not quite succeeding. "I—ah—it'll be about seven hours. Aye. Seven—at our normal speed—but the landin' will be hard... an' they'll be on us by then..."

Antonio had heard all he needed, and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Nearby a group of his more sensible men had had the presence of mind to rig and adjust the sails—without his having to give orders. Evidently they had assumed the  _Trinidad_ would reach Venice in time before the _Rising Sun_ caught up to it. Antonio made his way over to them.

"Stop," he said clearly.

The men, Eduardo among them, paused their work to stare at him in astonishment.

"But Cap'n," said one, "don' we need to go faster?"

"No. I said stop, so stop." His voice, hard as stone, did the trick and they hurriedly obeyed. "We don't need to outsail him. His ship is smaller than ours—he'll catch up either way. It's open sea for seven hours. We'll have to face him anyway." Even before he finished, however, he had seen the disagreement in Eduardo's face.

"What do  _you_  say, Eduardo?" he made sure to add cheerfully. The Spanish quartermaster shifted and reluctantly replied.

"We lost many men at Gallipoli already."

"No, we lost  _five,_ " Antonio said flatly. "And we have thirty left, including myself. A whole crew.  _My_ crew. Do you think I'll sit back and listen while the English call my crew  _cowards_?"

He deliberately raised his voice at the end, and by this time most of the pirates had gathered around to listen attentively. Antonio could hear murmurs of indignation, indicating their assent. He shot an expectant glance at Eduardo, who did not answer.

But that was all right—he could be  _forced_ to answer.

"All in favor of a fight, say aye!" Antonio shouted.

"AYE!" his men bellowed wholeheartedly—every one of them save Eduardo, who still looked unhappy about being outvoted. Antonio leaned close and nudged him in an almost conspiratorial manner.

"Aye or nay,  _amigo_?"

"... Aye," he said at last, quite unwillingly, but it was all Antonio needed. The  _Trinidad'_ s captain clapped him heartily on the back.

" _Muy bueno._ Now, here's what we'll do. Your  _capitán_ has it all figured out." He drew his men close around him. "That English  _hijo de puta_ should learn his lesson this time..."

* * *

The plan was simple—simple by anyone's standards, exactly the sort of thing a crafty man like Kirkland would long have predicted and overlooked, and so would least expect.

Antonio had divided his men in half, with one group remaining aboard the  _Trinidad_ and the rest with himself. Eduardo and Emilio were to supervise the ship and post guards at regular intervals to ensure nothing went amiss. If trouble arose they would light arrows on fire and shoot them up into the sky—one for a minor problem, two for a more serious one, and three if the entire ship was threatened. But of course everyone expected it wouldn't be necessary.

Antonio and  _his_ men, meanwhile, would take several small boats, row across to the  _Rising Sun,_ and ambush the English in the dead of night. Darkness was essential for stealth, and thus they had planned for the whole operation to take place at midnight—when the only light out at sea would come from the stars and the ships themselves. If the mission succeeded, not only would they have another ship, but the name Kirkland would also soon be replaced with a new one—Carriedo.

No one wanted to think about the consequences if they failed.

But at the moment Antonio could have cared less.

He, Eduardo, and Emilio had spent over two hours organizing his men and detailing his plans, and now they were ready. All that remained was to wait—for about five more hours. Five more hours and this endeavor, or battle, or whatever it was would be underway, and then only fickle, half-blind Fate could determine the outcome.

Yet Antonio didn't want to think, and it had nothing to do with his still-painful hangover from the night before. For some reason he had begun to feel weary, impossibly weary, of everything and everyone and most of all himself. It had occurred to him for the first time that day that all this would simply be another violent episode in their lives—they would kill and gain or kill and lose, or not kill... and then what? It was all his crew could do, it was all  _Antonio_ _himself_ could do—and he suddenly felt crushed under the simplicity of it all.

What a meaningless existence this was.

He felt so despondent that if, at that moment, someone had offered him the solutions to all his problems, he might have refused purely out of disbelief. But as it was the next best person he could see was waiting for him, leaning awkwardly by Antonio's cabin, half-hidden in shadow so that the Spaniard ran right into him when he turned the corner.

"I heard," said Lovino flatly, stepping out from the darkness.

Knowing it would anger him, Antonio chose not to answer and moved to unlock his door. The offended Italian immediately pushed right in front of him, blocking his way.

"Don't tell me you're  _actually_ going to do it, you dumb ass—"

Antonio pushed open the door, causing Lovino to lose his balance for just a second, then walked past him into his room. It was only when he lit a candle that the Italian noticed his face and grew even more agitated.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" he cried. "Can't you even fucking  _answer_ me?"

Antonio glanced tiredly at him.

"I'm all right," he said, not knowing why he was even speaking. "I made a decision and I'm abiding by it. That's all."

"Then I'm going with you!" declared Lovino without hesitation.

"No, you're not."

"You're fucking joking, right?"

"I'm not. You're staying here with Eduardo and all the rest. They still need to eat, you know." Antonio laughed quietly to himself, but Lovino was having none of it.

"What about you, then?" he demanded.

"I'll... go, like I said. If... if something happens, and I don't come back, then so be it. I had it coming to me anyway..."

"Oh, so  _that's_ the way it is!" cried Lovino, in a frenzy by now. "You stupid asshole—no one's making you go, you don't  _have_  to! It's fucking  _dangerous_ out there and you still—you still—"

"I still what?" Antonio couldn't find much strength to speak. "I don't have a choice. That's the way it is—there never  _was_  a choice. It's all been decided. You don't understand, Lovino." Almost automatically he placed one hand on the Italian's shoulder, but Lovino shook it off angrily.

"I understand better than you do! And I'm telling you, you're  _not going!"_

"I am," said Antonio calmly.

"No! You can't!"

"I can."

"Oh, you  _can,_ all right." Lovino's eyes blazed with a sudden unknown fury. "You  _can_ " —he moved closer, eyes piercing into Antonio's, voice rising— "you  _can,_ and I  _can't,_ but I'll be  _damned_  if I let you go off and die again! I'll go to the fucking  _Devil_ if I have to but  _you're not fucking leaving, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo_! Do you  _hear me_?"

Antonio could only stare at him, frozen in place, unable to speak. The Italian's words had somehow seared through him, traveled all the way to that one little spot in his chest where it felt especially hollow, and settled there. A strange feeling took hold of him, spread through his veins like wildfire, whispering to him that maybe, just maybe, that one impossible hope of his might just come true...

Lovino had come close—so close—so very close that only a few inches separated them. Antonio could see the golden flecks in his hazel eyes, the dark anger slowly giving way to something so soft and so gentle it made his chest ache with a familiar pain.

"I can't lose you," the Italian whispered. "Not you... Anyone but you."

And then Antonio didn't know who moved first, him or Lovino—but suddenly the distance between them had vanished, their lips had crashed together and they were kissing roughly, passionately, desperately. Lovino's fingers raked through his hair as he pressed closer, oh so close, murmuring Antonio's name over and over as though the Spaniard were his only source of life. Some small voice in Antonio's mind kept screaming  _no no this shouldn't be happening, you're being selfish, you don't deserve his love because of who you_ are—but he couldn't do as it said, he  _couldn't_ , because he had never felt so alive in thirteen years and all he could do was kiss Lovino back and show him every,  _every_ bit of feeling he had ever had for this wonderful, handsome, strong, honorable little Italian.

For the first time in thirteen long years, that hollow in his chest, where his heart had once been, had filled up again—and he was whole.

* * *

Night had long fallen. In the darkness all was still, save the slow rise and fall of their chests as they breathed in the cool air. Lovino lay beside him, fingers tangled in Antonio's shirt, closer and warmer than the Spaniard had ever dreamed possible. Even in the shadows his eyes seemed to glow with a light of their own, brighter than any candle or lantern or star.

Antonio reached out to touch his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself whisper. Lovino's bright eyes flickered questioningly at him.

"What do you have to be sorry about?"

"Everything." Suddenly Antonio didn't know what to say. "Everything's messed up because of me. You wouldn't have to suffer if I wasn't selfish. You wouldn't even  _be_  here if it wasn't for me... It would've been better if we had never met at all."

"Don't say that."

"It's true. You could have gone on living your life, I could have gone on wasting mine..."

"Shut up." Lovino moved even closer, resting his head on Antonio's shoulder. "You're telling me to live my damn life with half a heart."

"But I'm a pirate," the Spaniard said weakly, disturbed by the strange pounding feeling in his chest.

"And you know what? I don't give a flying fuck."

Lovino pulled him down to meet his lips. The second kiss was soft, gentle, everything they had wanted to say with the first and more, and slowly but surely Antonio felt himself melting and giving in. In that moment he knew he loved Lovino and Lovino loved him and somehow the pain he felt inside worsened all the more at the knowledge.

Eventually they parted, Lovino's lips lingering just a bit more before he pulled away. For a long time they stayed in each other's arms, silent, unmoving, each trying to read the other by his eyes alone. It was infinitely miserable for Antonio—he could see everything in Lovino's eyes, all his feeling, all his devotion. He wanted to say something—just a word, or two, or three—but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Don't leave, Antonio," the Italian whispered at last. "Don't ever leave me again."

He couldn't answer.

"Antonio..."

Antonio kissed him once, twice, three times. Lovino fell silent because his mouth was busy returning them. But the expression in his hazel eyes was undeniably sad. He knew what Antonio wanted to do.

"I'm not letting you go," he said desperately. "I'm staying right here and I'm not going anywhere."

"Then I'll sleep easy...  _mi capitán_ Lovi."

He tried for a mischievous smile and the air seemed to lighten.

"Shut up," Lovino snapped, some of the old flame returning to his eyes. But a faint blush had spread over his cheeks and the corners of his mouth had turned up ever so slightly. It was the most beautiful sight Antonio had ever seen. He wanted to stop time, keep that image in his head, never move from his place, never let go of Lovino.

"I'll sleep now, then," he murmured, but it was not before kissing the Italian one last time that he finally closed his eyes.

But he did not sleep.

His eyes were shut but his mind was still awake and alert. He knew he had only a few hours left before the mission began, and he would have to get away at the first possible opportunity. He would have to leave Lovino but it was all for the best.

There could be no other way.

Lovino must have been watching him, waiting for him to fall asleep, because after what seemed like ages he let out a quiet sigh and reached out to stroke Antonio's hair.

"I love you," he said softly and the Spaniard's heart stopped. "I've loved you from the beginning, when we met... and ever since. Even when I thought you were gone... I've never stopped loving you. And I never will."

He pressed a kiss to Antonio's forehead. It was a moment the Spaniard would remember for the rest of his life.

* * *

Eventually Lovino quieted and all Antonio could hear was his even breathing. Hesitantly he cracked one eye open, then the other. The Italian was most certainly asleep—his eyes were closed and he did not even stir when Antonio gently pried his arms from his waist.

"'Tonio..." he mumbled sleepily, in the throes of a dream. "Antonio... stay with me..."

Antonio's heart suddenly ached.

He lay Lovino back down on the bed, pulled the blanket over the sleeping Italian, and stood up. The hourglass on a nearby table told him he had little time left, and he turned to go. But a sudden thought hit him and he stopped.

Slowly Antonio unclasped the golden necklace he wore, watching it flash for a moment in the starlight from the window. Then he took out a piece of parchment and a quill and wrote.

He left everything on the table and went quietly out. At the doorway he paused for just a second, to look at Lovino one last time.

Unable to stop himself, he ran back and kissed the Italian's forehead, before leaving as quickly as he could, without turning back, without thinking twice, without anything except the remnants of his heart and the memories.

Nothing had ever hurt so much.

* * *

Some time later an unknown instinct caused Lovino to jolt awake with a start. The room was still dark, but the moment he opened his eyes he could see the other side of the bed was empty, no longer warm. His heart sank and he was just about to leap up and run out the door when a golden gleam caught his eye.

With shaking hands he reached for the items on the bedside table.

He recognized the moon charm immediately—it was Antonio's necklace. Tucked underneath it was a message.

Heart pounding, Lovino unfolded it.

There were only seven words.

_I'm sorry.  
_ _I love you, Lovino Vargas._

* * *

He ran, ran until his lungs were burning and his heart threatened to burst. It seemed to take him forever to get up to the deck, and even though he knew it was too late, he couldn't accept it. It couldn't be. Antonio couldn't have left. He wasn't supposed to go.

"ANTONIO!"

It was Lovino's fault. All his fault.

He had been such a fool, such a goddamn  _fool_. Why the hell had he closed his eyes,  _why_?

It had just been for a second...

But in that second he had slipped away.

" _ANTONIO_!" he screamed, running to the railing, desperately straining his eyes but finding nothing. " _ANTONIO_!"

It was there he collapsed, alone, the sheer weight of reality crashing down upon him with a vengeance. He could see the silhouette of the English ship in the distance, far away, too far away for him to swim and reach.

Just as the Spaniard was by now too far out of reach.

" _Antonio_ ," he whispered, and the first tear fell onto the cold, hard ground.

 


	11. Rising Sun

The wind whipped mercilessly at him, bringing cold that chilled him to the bone and gripped his heart until it was all but numb. But Lovino noticed none of it. Nor did he notice the tears that fell intermittently as he stared out over the roiling waves.

He was gone **—** gone **—** despite Lovino's every effort to hold onto him, to keep him close, to stop him from leaving again.

The sea churned beneath him, calling to the sky with eerie crashing cries that echoed in his heart and mind. He had never felt so empty, so abandoned, so utterly alone as he did then.

Woodenly he stood and began walking about the deck, driven by some unconscious impulse to  _search_. Perhaps, he thought faintly, perhaps it had all been a delusion and Antonio had never gone at all. Perhaps even now he was hiding somewhere behind the mast, or among those barrels in the corner, or underneath those old canvas sails. Perhaps he would jump out when Lovino passed by, tackle the Italian, laugh and apologize with a kiss, and Lovino would smack him and things would be all right again.

But no cheerful Spaniard emerged to chase away the shadows **—** Antonio did not answer to his name **—** even after Lovino dreamily circled the deck for what must have been the tenth time, and eventually the Italian stopped altogether.

What little strength Lovino had left him then. He very nearly crumpled to the ground again, but a burly pair of arms caught him and hauled him upright. It was a tired and cranky-looking Eduardo, with dark circles under his anger-filled eyes.

"The hell are ye doin' here makin' such a racket?" he shouted above the roar of the sea. When Lovino didn't answer he shook him. "Git back to work!"

"No," the Italian said finally.

"... What did ye just say?" A threat suddenly gleamed in the tall pirate's eyes, and his grip on Lovino's shoulders tightened to the point of painfulness. "Ye'd best do what I say ye do or ye give up yer head as payment. Understand?"

"Where's... Antonio? Tell me..."

" _Antonio_?" Eduardo's eyes widened and he let out an incredulous laugh, as though Lovino were some strange talking sea-creature. "Ye call him  _Antonio_? What do ye think ye are, his lover? His wife? Yer a funny 'un. I heard ye yellin' for him all the way from below decks. Well,  _lo siento_ , little prisoner. He's gone. Gone to fight Kirkland 'fore he gets ahold o' this here ship." Gauging Lovino's reaction, he smiled rather maliciously and stroked his chin in a thoughtful manner. "Methinks... he ain't comin' back..."

" _Don't fucking say that_!" Lovino kicked at him, immediately receiving a heavy blow to the jaw in return. Stars exploded in his vision but the pain awoke him, and the fury spilled out. " _How dare you_ _ **—**_ "

"How dare I? Howdare  _I_?" The pirate's voice had suddenly grown dangerously quiet, and he held on to Lovino even as the Italian struggled. "How dare  _I_ , ye ask? Ye should've asked your precious  _Antonio_ , little man."

"What **—** what the hell do you mean?"

Eduardo's face was hard and cruel.

"He took what was meant to be  _mine_ ," he hissed. " _I_ was here long before him.  _I_ found him an' helped him avenge his sister.  _I_ looked after him when he was hurt an' suchlike **—** _I_ stood up for him when the old  _capitán_ wanted to throw him off the ship. An' he **—** what does  _he_ do for me in return?  _He_ steals me place on this ship **—** _he_ thinks to order  _me_ aroun' **—** an' now ye tell me,  _how dare I_?"

Lovino stared up at him, fearful and unable to answer. And Eduardo laughed, a high chilling laugh.

"No, little prisoner, this is the way things are meant to be.  _I_ am  _capitán_ now **—** because we all know  _Antonio ain't comin' back_. An' even if he does **—** why, who says I have to let him back in? I gots enough men for me own crew. I can make me own way without him **—** don't ye agree?"

"No."

"No? What,  _still_ pinin' after that worthless excuse for a cap'n? He left ye too, remember. He's no good for ye. Why, he told me hisself **—** yer worth nothin' to him **—** "

"I love him."

Eduardo laughed again. "Ye call that  _love_?"

"What would  _you_ fucking know of love?" Lovino shouted back. Anger suddenly boiled inside him, infusing him with red-hot strength. He wrenched himself free from Eduardo's grasp. "I don't give one shit about you and your goddamned idiotic plans. You go your fucking way and I go mine. All right?"

"And ye think ye can go just like that? Think I can't stop ye?"

He grabbed Lovino again, heavy hands squeezing the Italian's shoulders harder and harder, until it felt as though something might break. Lovino struggled but refused to cry out in pain.

"Yer such a weak little thing," Eduardo said, observing him almost pityingly. "Ye shouldn't even be here in the first place."

It was so much like something Antonio might have said, and a shudder ran through Lovino's body. And he could not help answering the unspoken question.

"Maybe I was. Meant to be here, I mean. I was meant to find him and he was meant to find me and **—** and no one's going to stop us." He raised his head and met Eduardo's eyes steadily. "If you keep me here **—** I'll escape and find him. If you torture me **—** I'll scream for him. If you kill me **—** I'll find him as a fucking ghost." By this time he had become completely calm, in contrast to Eduardo's visible unease. He continued staring unflinchingly at the pirate.

"You cannot stop me, you cannot stop him. No one can. And no one ever will."

The tall Spaniard's eyes flashed for a split second, his face contorted somewhat, and yet he was silent **—** as though Lovino's words had just forced him to remember something.

And then his grip loosened and he set Lovino back down on the deck.

"Go, take that there spare boat," he said, refusing to look at Lovino, becoming angrier when the Italian did not immediately follow instructions. " _Go_! Go risk life an' limb to find yer lover boy.  _Dios_ , I can see it in yer eyes yer goin' to do it." His voice was shaking. "Damn people like ye, damn yer soft, pure, noble little hearts and yer true love and yer happy endin's. Damn ye all."

Lovino stared at him openmouthed.

"I **—** "

"Don't go givin' me those looks o' pity, ye little bastard. I don't need it.  _I_ _don't need it_ , ye hear me?" he shouted in Lovino's face. "I don't need no kindness - had enough o' that. This here is all I have. Don't need nothin' more. Ye need Antonio, go an' find him, go an' save him. I won't stop ye."

"I'm going now."

"Good." Eduardo helped him ready the boat, pushed Lovino in, and at the last moment pressed a sword into his hands. The boat began to lower into the water. "Go, an' don't come back."

Lovino clutched onto the oars and took one last upward look at the pirate's face, which was getting smaller by the minute.

"Goodbye," he said.

A strange emotion raced across Eduardo's features, and when he spoke his voice was rough. He did not look at Lovino again.

"Goodbye."

And then the boat's ties were cut, water splashed gently around him, and Lovino was once more alone in the vast open sea. Only this time, he was free and one step closer to the one he loved.

* * *

Higher and higher they climbed, quickly and stealthily, making no noise whatsoever. Kirkland's sentries were just barely visible from this side of the ship, but they were looking directly out at the sea, not below. They did not see any of the small boats floating away towards the rear, nor the Spaniards scaling the sides of the  _Rising Sun_ like so many cats.

Antonio's dagger threatened to slip from his belt for the umpteenth time; at last he gave up adjusting it, and stuck it sideways in his mouth. Climbing became much easier when he did not have to pause to check his weapons. And the other men still relied on him to give the signal.

The ship was larger than they had expected, but still only half the size of the  _Trinidad_. Before long Antonio found himself only three feet from the top and, hanging on with both his hands, he turned and looked about for his men. Most of them had kept up with his quick pace, but there were still some stragglers.

Two feet from the top. They had caught up.

One foot **—**

Antonio gave the signal and the Spaniards swung up and over the railing, swords in hand.

The first pirate who saw them was a lanky blond-haired man, a little older than Antonio. His eyes widened silently when he saw them, and his mouth opened to give a yell, but it was abruptly cut off when a silver blade sliced across his throat.

He fell, followed by the bodies of several other sentries, as Antonio's pirates quickly disposed of their unwanted attention. Most of them died silently, within the first few minutes of the Spaniards' arrival, except for one.

"Cap'n, Cap'n!" a shout came from the far end of the ship. "They're attackin' **—** the Spanish are attackin' **—** "

Antonio threw his dagger and it hit the man squarely in the chest, ending his calls for help **—** but the damage had been done. His words had broken the silence like a blade piercing a thin veil. And already the invaders could hear commotion from down below **—** the English pirates rousing each other from sleep, whispers of alarm, the thump of booted feet as they ran to meet the intruders.

But their only way up to the deck was through two trapdoors, only a few men wide. And the Spaniards' only entrance below decks turned out to be the same.

There followed a long moment of hesitation, during which neither group dared to move, those two doors becoming their barriers. Any man in his right mind knew he would be killed as soon as he passed through. It was a test of the brave, the foolhardy, and the cowardly.

And then an Englishman raised his voice.

"Come in if you dare **—** you gutless weaklings!"

He knew that voice. He would have recognized it anywhere.

The taunt had hit home **—** Antonio's men were furious. Suddenly one man broke ranks and raced down, followed by another, and then another. The first two were taken down, but the third leapt over their bodies and fought. And then the Englishmen could no longer stop them, because pirate after pirate continued to enter. Antonio was among them. Angry curses sounded, along with the terrifyingly quiet echoes of metal against metal and the soft thuds of men falling.

" _Mierda_ ," Antonio muttered to himself as he dispatched two Englishmen who dared come near.

It was clear his men were an almost even match for Kirkland's—in numbers as well as skill. He could see now how Kirkland had managed to make his way in the pirating world—not by how many men he had but by the illusion he put up. No physical strength was necessary when an easy facade could accomplish the same. And no wonder why there had never been any reported mutinies with regards to the  _Rising Sun_.

But  _this_  was a different situation altogether—and from the looks of things, this battle would be over soon, very soon.

Felling a few more pirates, Antonio began rapidly scanning the crowd for a familiar black eyepatch. It was time to show that English privateer who had the real upper hand.

He was doing this not for his men, not for the  _Trinidad_ , definitely not for himself. But for that one Italian who had shared his heart with him.

And Antonio would not fail.

Because it was all for  _him_.

* * *

Rowing a boat had never been so difficult—not while the sea tossed and turned like some medieval monster, rendering the small craft all but useless against its strength. Lovino struggled with the oars while trying to keep an eye on the English ship that seemed so far away.

Behind him the  _Trinidad_ had mostly faded into the darkness. Whatever Eduardo and his cronies were planning, at least it would not involve Antonio. Antonio who had been so loving and yet so foolish, rushing headlong into things without even caring about himself.

The very thought of him was enough to make Lovino's heart race, and his breath grew short with the urgency of the situation. Straining against the stubborn sea, the Italian plunged forward in his little boat, making some headway through the waves. Eventually he won the battle and found himself several feet away from the hull of the ship.

Even from there the sounds of fighting and the groans of the wounded and dying were audible. Lovino realized with a sinking heart that he was late _—_ again.

"ANTONIO!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, but there was no answer.

Angrily he jumped from the boat, grabbed on to the side of the ship, and started climbing as quickly as his tired limbs would allow. Fear for Antonio aided his progress—soon he was at the top of the ship—then he had leapt over and discovered to his dismay a deserted battlefield.

"Fuck... fuck fuck  _holy fucking shit—ANTONIO_!"

He ran, nearly tripping over the bodies of dead pirates, to the brown-haired man lying facedown near the railing. Lovino's mouth grew dry and his heart all but stopped as he reached him—

He had so much blood on him—his hand was so cold—he was so pale—

And then Lovino turned him over and saw not a familiar Spanish face but the features of an older man, with a scar on his right cheek, a few missing teeth, and glassy dark eyes.

The Italian threw him back down and stood on shaky legs, almost choking with relief. It was not Antonio—would never be Antonio—Antonio was still here somewhere and  _alive,_ because he  _had to be, he had to—_

"ANTONIO!" he screamed again and this time he was certain he heard a faint answer, somewhere off in the distance: _  
_

" _Lovino_...?"

Below decks. He was  _below decks_.

Lovino found the trapdoor and leaped down, drawing his sword in the same breath, and landed in the midst of a dying battle between several men.

* * *

That black eyepatch had to be Arthur Kirkland's downfall. Like Antonio, he had discarded his pirate captain's clothes in favor of blending in with his men, but almost none of them wore an eyepatch as prominent as the English privateer's. Antonio had spotted him in no time, but the man, instead of meeting him head-on, had dived back into the crowd and vanished temporarily from view.

"Kirkland!" he roared, and followed in hot pursuit, catching the Englishman right before he reached the trapdoor. The pirate in question stopped and turned, with a toothy grin that did not quite reach his one devious green eye.

"Oh, so it's you," he said lazily.

"I see you remember me," returned Antonio, just as calmly.

"Of course. How could I not? You were that captain's little servant, if my memory is correct. What happened to him? Did he die? Looks like you're the captain now, no?"

He was talking as though they were old friends of some sort. As though they were not sworn enemies, as though he was not on the verge of losing this entire battle. Looking at him, Antonio could feel an involuntary shiver run up his spine. This Englishman had something else under his sleeve, he was sure of it.

" _You_ don't look much like a captain to me," the Spaniard retorted. "Running away like that—why don't you fight like a man?"

"Well, you can call that  _running away_ , but really, it all depends on how you look at it. And as for fighting... that can definitely be arranged." A dangerous gleam entered Kirkland's eye and he moved away from the trapdoor, wickedly sharp cutlass in hand. He tossed it in the air and caught it neatly, twirling the hilt round and round between his fingers. The Englishman winked devilishly.

"How about this. If you win, you take my ship, my men, and my treasure. If I win, I do the same with yours. Whoever loses gets to sleep in the sea. Agreed?"

His voice was dangerously cool and collected. And it hit Antonio—this most wanted man in Europe was not going down without a fight. He did not expect to lose at all.

But then again, neither did Antonio.

"Agreed," he replied, in a tone just as hard and dangerous, and brought forth his own sword. They circled each other for a moment, a moment that seemed to drag on longer than seconds or minutes or hours. Green eyes met green, exchanging equally cold glares; and then Kirkland pounced forward.

Antonio's sword screeched harshly against the Englishman's as he parried the surprisingly strong blow, deflecting it just in time.

Kirkland chuckled. "Was that too much for you?"

He brought his cutlass down again, a quick strong movement, narrowly missing Antonio's face by an inch. This time the Spaniard was faster on the defense, but the blade still sliced thinly across his left arm, drawing blood. Kirkland laughed heartily.

"Why, I thought you were a captain."

"I am," Antonio gritted out, clutching his arm. "But I would rather be captain in my own way instead of yours. And whether you kill me or not, you're going to lose. Look, your men are all dead."

"Or are they?" Kirkland interjected, raising an eyebrow, and suddenly it seemed  _he_ was asking the question. An unpleasant feeling arose in the pit of Antonio's stomach as he realized just what the Englishman might have in mind—

And then Kirkland swept an arm toward the nearest window.

"Look," he said.

Antonio did not look.

"Nice try."

"My God, are you Spaniards stubborn. I'm not even joking this time.  _Look_." Suddenly the English pirate threw down his cutlass and unstrapped his daggers and tossed them far away. "I'm not going to kill you, git. Now  _look_  and tell me what you see."

His voice had an evil singsong quality to it.

And Antonio, the distressing feeling growing ever stronger, turned to look out at the sea.

Under any other circumstances the sight would have been the most ordinary— no one would have given it a second thought. But now, precisely at the end of the battle, it was surprising in the most terrifying way.

In the distance, silhouetted against the slowly lightening sky, were two ships. Two unmistakable large ships, undoubtedly full of men armed to the teeth, advancing on another _—_ the  _Trinidad_  herself.

Despite himself Antonio felt his heart stop; his whole body tensed. There was no way this could be true—there was no way.

There had been a trap after all... and he had fallen straight into it.

But it was not of himself that he thought now; it was someone else. His heart stilled in his chest and his breath grew short. How had he been so careless? How could he have left, slipped away so quietly with only three words of feeling,  _how_? Something stirred powerfully within him at the thought of Lovino,  _his_ Lovino... nothing could befall him. Nothing.

Antonio could not—would not—would never let it happen.

"Oh, you look so worried, my friend! What  _is_  the matter, I wonder?"

Loud guffaws interrupted him and he jolted out of his thoughts—Kirkland was  _laughing at him_. Then he calmed; something like a smile crossed his face, an insincere, mocking smile.

"Now you see, don't you?" His wicked grin grew ever wider, and he stooped to retrieve his cutlass, eyes never leaving Antonio. "Now that you know... how about we resume our little duel. Like men. Shall we?"

Antonio did not reply, but one of his daggers did shoot past Kirkland's head to bury itself in the wall behind him. Kirkland's one eye widened for a split second and then he laughed again, an unnaturally lighthearted sound.

"So you agree," he exclaimed, although Antonio had said nothing of the sort. "Well, it's been nice meeting you. I'll make sure to give you the best eulogy I can—I think I know one by heart now, since I say it so often..."

A loud thump from above interrupted them and Kirkland glanced up in surprise. He had just opened his mouth to shout when the man from above did it for him.

"ANTONIO!"

For the second time that night Antonio felt himself freeze, felt his blood run cold at the familiar voice.

He couldn't be here—it couldn't be him. No, no,  _no—_ not now,  _not here—and yet there was no other way—_

" _Lovino..._?"

"ANTONIO!  _ANTONIO_!"

Frantic footsteps began making their way towards them, and less than a minute later Lovino hopped through the trapdoor. His face had been drawn with worry and trepidation, but it immediately lightened when he saw Antonio. He looked as though he might break down on the spot.

"Antonio—you're all right—!"

"Who are you?" interrupted Kirkland, looking him up and down with sudden interest. "You two know each other?"

Both the Italian and Spaniard ignored him, because Lovino had just run forward to throw his arms around Antonio, and Antonio had responded by stopping him and shoving him behind his back. The Spaniard pointed his cutlass straight at Kirkland.

"Don't come any nearer or I'll make  _sure_  you die a slow, painful death."

"What? Did you think I would?" Kirkland had once more reverted to his humorous mood. He did not move forward, however. "Cute little Italian you have there. What, he can't defend himself?"

"If he doesn't kill you first I'll fucking cut your windpipe out, you low-down little bastard," spat Lovino, brandishing his own sword. "And if you value your life you had better fucking leave us alone or jump in the sea."

"Oh, a feisty one, I see."

"Do you  _want_ to have your throat slit,  _hijo de puta_?" _  
_

"Maybe some other time." Kirkland snickered and suddenly plopped himself down onto an abandoned crate in the corner. "I'm really getting too old for this sort of thing. Look how tired I am." He sighed a mock sigh. "I think I'll just wait until my men come here—probably won't be long."

Antonio remained where he was, not taking his eyes off the English pirate, watching his every move. But Kirkland did nothing—in fact, he leaned back against the wall and closed his one eye.

"If you want to kill me, kill away. I'm at the end of my road, anyhow. When you get to be like me you'll understand,  _Antonio_ ," he said. "Or maybe you already do."

Antonio did, and because of that he was angry.

Very quietly he nudged Lovino towards the trapdoor, but the Italian didn't budge, instead tugging on Antonio's sleeve to get him to move along. At last the Spaniard relented and they inched slowly away from Kirkland, making their way back to the top. The English pirate must have heard them, however, because he spoke.

"You can wait for me up there. I promise I won't be long."

* * *

He was grateful for the sea air for once—it cleared his head and provided a welcome contrast from everything that had just happened. Antonio was all right, but nothing else was. The boat he had rowed had floated away on the ocean current, and there were no others in sight. Lovino felt it necessary to vent some of his anger. And he did so by kicking the railing so hard that his foot felt somewhat numb afterwards.

He felt Antonio wrap his arms around him from behind.

" _Lo siento,_ " the Spaniard whispered close to his ear, his voice enough to break a heart. "I'm sorry for everything—"

Lovino quickly disentangled himself.

"Don't you fucking tell me you're sorry, bastard. Not here and not now. I don't want to hear it."

"Lovino—"

"Stop it. Fucking  _stop it_ , all right?" He took a deep breath to calm himself before he lost it, ignoring the way Antonio was looking at him, and walked on. "We need to get the hell out before the other motherfuckers arrive. And I just lost my boat."

"We can look for another," Antonio supplied, slowly following him.

"At least you can actually use your head for once—" Lovino stopped short when a blur flashed across the edge of his vision.

It was an Englishman that was not Kirkland—somehow he had survived despite the blood soaking him, and he was standing behind the mast, some distance away, behind Antonio. Something glinted in the dim air and with horror the Italian realized it was a dagger in his hand, poised to throw.

Antonio must have noticed the look on his face, because he turned.

"Lovino, what is it? Is there—"

"Shit— _watch out_!"

Almost automatically he jumped for the Spaniard and pushed him to the side, out of harm's way.

And at the same time something buried itself inside him with an unearthly screaming pain.

* * *

Antonio's mind had frozen up in that split second before Lovino tackled him—but it quickly stirred back to life when something whizzed, a cry sounded, and both of them hit the wooden floor with a heavy thud.

His first thought when he scrambled upright was of the Italian.

Because that had been his voice.

"Lovi—Lovino—are you all right—"

And then his eyes fell upon the Italian lying a short distance away, half curled up and breathing shallowly, one shaking hand reaching out to touch—sticking out of his side—

The hilt of a dagger.

Everything crashed down.

"Lovino!  _LOVINO_!"

Antonio rushed to him, picked him up in his arms, cradled him. The Italian seemed small, so small. Lovino's face was drawn tight and pale with pain, but he still managed to give Antonio a faint smile.

"It—it's not that bad—is it?" he whispered.

Antonio couldn't think. He couldn't speak. He couldn't do anything except shake his head. Because it was Lovino and oh  _no it couldn't be Lovino not him anyone but him—_

"He's... he's getting away," the Italian mumbled.

"No—I don't care!" he choked out. "Lovino—why did you have to—it was meant for  _me—_ "

And it couldn't be it  _couldn't be he was only dreaming only dreaming only dreaming—_

Lovino grinned slightly and leaned one hand against his cheek.

"Do you think... I would really... let you die, bastard?"

"Don't do this to me, Lovino. Don't. Please—"

"I love you, Antonio..."

"NO!" He couldn't stop it; he was choking on sudden tears. " _Mierda,_ Lovino,  _lo siento, lo siento mucho... te amo, eres mi todo,_ _por favor, no_..."

Lovino grabbed his face and pulled it down against his, fingers working gently through the sobbing Spaniard's brown curls.

"Don't be... such a... dumbass. I'm not..." His eyes closed. "I'll be okay."

His hold loosened and his hand slipped from Antonio's hair and fell back down into his lap.

"Lovino—NO!  _LOVINO_!"

Frantically he grabbed the Italian's hand, kissed it, kissed his still-warm lips, trying trying  _trying_ to reopen those eyes, to get him to wake up again. And then his fingers brushed a spot along Lovino's neck and he felt that faint but unmistakable pulsing that meant—

_He was still alive_.

Suddenly a loud boom sounded and the floor rocked beneath him and a voice bellowed from afar:

" _Arrendersi adesso_!  _Sei in arresto_!"

* * *

He did not know why, he did not know how, but a stroke of luck had come at the direst moment—Fate, heartless as she was, had turned her head and nodded to them, just once—and now Antonio was on board an Italian ship, under arrest but nonetheless with Lovino.

"Let me see him!" he had shouted when they took Lovino below decks to treat his wound—but oh, how pale he had looked, how small, how fragile...

They had put him onto a bed and taken off his shirt and one man had slowly pulled out the dagger. There had been so much blood, so much blood, even after they had bandaged him and cleaned it off. And at one point, when they had left him alone, Lovino had opened his eyes to see Antonio and smiled faintly and reached out to touch his hand.

"What is it?" the Spaniard whispered when the Italian's lips moved slightly.

"Antonio... come here. Closer."

He did as he was told.

"Promise me... promise me one thing, all right?"

"I will—I will—I'll promise you anything—!"

"Promise me... no matter what happens, stay safe. If they take you away... I'll come back and find you. When I get better..." He must have seen Antonio's expression because his eyes grew sad and anxious. "Please... wait for me. I'll find you... I will."

Antonio tried not to grip his hand too tightly but did so anyway—and he could feel Lovino doing the same.

"I will... I promise." The words tumbled out, heartfelt yet panicked because they had so little time, so little time. "I love you, Lovino,  _I love you_ —"

"I love you too, Antonio..."

They kissed, quickly and desperately, Lovino's hands reaching up to touch his face, and he felt dampness that was not water race down his cheeks. And immediately after that Antonio was taken away to another room, away from Lovino, where he was locked up and questioned.

"You are a pirate, aren't you?" an Italian man asked him. His eyes were sharp and hard and so was his voice.

"Yes," Antonio said, "yes, yes—but please, let me see him again—let me see Lovino—"

"Do you know who you're asking to see?  _Lovino Vargas_. I can't grant your request, but I can tell you he is in good hands, and he will be all right." The man's stare redoubled in intensity, and it was as though he were trying to gaze into Antonio's soul. "Now tell me: who are you, how did you meet him and how was he hurt?"

"I'm Antonio Fernandez Carriedo and he—he was captured. And he traveled with us, and he—he took that hit when it was meant for me—"

"What is your relationship with this man?"

"I-I don't know..." He was choking again. He couldn't breathe, he could barely speak. "I love him.  _I love him_. I would do anything for him,  _anything—_ "

"Then you will agree to never see him again, for his sake?"

Antonio's head shot up and a wild look entered his eyes. "I—but—"

" _For his sake_."

He remembered what Lovino had said, and closed his eyes.

"...  _Yes_."

"Good. I knew you would cooperate." A small smile entered the man's face, not reaching his eyes, and he turned to the window behind them. "It's my duty to keep him safe. Because you see, I am his  _fratello_."

When Antonio looked at him again he realized it. The same basic facial features, almost the same demeanor now, almost the same look in his eyes. There were slight differences, to be sure—his mouth seemed to have been made for smiling, he did not have Lovino's hard defined jawline, and there was something altogether more open in his face—although it had all been tucked away before Antonio. And Antonio saw that he was very much like Lovino, but not Lovino.

"So... you're his brother."

" _Sì_. Feliciano Vargas. You wouldn't know how afraid we were when he disappeared... How I searched for him, sent out notices, everything. How my sister worried herself so much she couldn't sleep well for days, weeks. And then you turn up with him, almost dead." His eyes were hard and he whirled on Antonio suddenly. "It's your fault my brother is hurt. It's  _your fault_  and you will not see him after this, is that clear? I could have you executed for this—I only have to give the word. But I am sparing your life as long as you leave and never come back. Do you understand?"

Antonio stared at him for a long moment and then he nodded. Feliciano looked at him and then away again.

"Come here and look out the window," he said.

The Spaniard did so, for the second time, and for the second time he was met with a heart-wrenching sight.

Fire had lit up the ocean, burning red-orange fire devouring the ship that he had once called  _Trinidad_ , devouring the Spanish ship and the English ships, slowly but surely. And as he watched another explosion split the air. The vessels teetered, large cracks appearing in their wooden hulls, and they dipped dangerously low in the water.

"We aren't taking any more prisoners," the Italian said quietly. Antonio did not respond.

Onward they sailed, aboard the Italian ship which sped through the water ever closer to the shore, where spires stood out beneath the sky, no longer dark. Venice stood before them in all her glory, and yet no one saw any of it.

A crimson glare shone from far beyond them, far beyond the sea.

And the ships continued to sink under the red red light of the rising sun.


	12. Clear Skies, Stormy Seas

He was left alone in the small locked room. The floor shifted strongly beneath him, making him lose his balance against the wooden wall; it was the fault of the waves. He sat down and leaned back and did not move for a long while, staring at nothing in particular. Even when the ground finally settled he remained sitting there, very still. His fingers ran over something in his pocket—the familiar little necklace, which Lovino had slipped into his hand just before this imprisonment.

There came footsteps at the door; a key rattled in the heavy lock. Then in walked a man with frowning face and dark brown hair. Antonio, with his blurred vision, did not look any further than that.

"Lovino…?"

"He's not here." The voice was hard and expressionless—it wasn't his. And as Antonio's sight cleared enough he realized the face wasn't Lovino's either. It was Feliciano who stood before him, with a look that could be pity in his brown eyes, as if he might understand on the slightest level how Antonio felt. Foolish, useless attempt! There was no more feeling left in the Spaniard's chest than in a wooden doll. It had all gone with the one he would never see again.

"So… we're there now?" Antonio asked after a pause.

"Yes. You're to come with us."

Several men entered behind Feliciano as he spoke, and two of them roughly dragged Antonio to his feet. The now former pirate glanced from one face to another, calm.

"Are you taking me to prison?"

"Yes."

Without another word he followed them outside. Their boots echoed heavily on the wooden floor as they passed other rooms—here was the galley, there the mess hall, so much like those of the  _Trinidad_. And at last they emerged on the deck, where Antonio had a clear view of the sea and the sky.

It was a drastic transformation from a few hours prior. Where the sky had been reddened by fire and rising sun, there only remained a pale blue. All traces of smoke had vanished. The sea behind them was a uniform blanket of azure, lit up here and there by the golden orb which hung high above.

Today was much too beautiful to lose his freedom.

Antonio turned to the Italian men, two of whom were still holding on to him.

"Can't I have one last word with him before I go?"

One of the men shook his head. "Orders are orders. You'll come with us." Well, even if he couldn't—perhaps that was better in the long run.

Again the Spaniard looked around at all of them, as though seeing them for the last time. Each man was unsmiling, each grim and determined in his duty, each turned against him by the word of their younger superior.

"Maybe I will," he said at last. "I will… but not this time."

And before any of them could react, he grabbed onto the railing, boosted himself up, and leaped down into the warm blue sea.

* * *

Lovino groaned. His eyelids were heavy, and his entire body was limp with an indescribable fatigue. He wanted nothing more than to sleep—but he couldn't close his eyes, because the pain in his side and that other intangible pain in his chest still lanced through him.

At least, according to the ship's doctor, he could still live… He opened his eyes fully and glanced up at the man hovering worriedly over him.

"Feli?" he whispered. "It's you, right?"

" _Sì_." His younger brother grasped his hand tightly. It was strange seeing him as serious as this. "How're you feeling?"

"I'm… I'm all right. It doesn't hurt that much anymore." Lovino tried to sit up but suddenly felt as if he were being stabbed again. "Shit—" he gasped before recovering himself, refusing Feliciano's help. "I'm fine. Where's—where's Antonio?"

He didn't see Feliciano's eyes darken at the mention of the name. The younger Italian only shrugged. "He's all right. We found him somewhere to stay, remember?"

"You did? Good…" Lovino muttered, lying back down. "Don't let the stupid asshole hurt himself. I want to see him later…"

"It'll be done. Don't worry."

"Are… are we near Venice yet?"

"I think so. Giorgio told me we're on the city outskirts." Feliciano turned at the sound of frantic knocking, and went to answer the door. As much as he tried, Lovino couldn't see who it was, and he couldn't hear their subdued conversation. His brother quickly returned.

"It's Giorgio. He said he sent someone to hire a gondola. But we'll have to take you into the city by boat first... does it still hurt?"

"No—damn, you're getting more like Nonno every day."

"Someone has to give the orders when you're not around."

"All right then,  _fratello_. You win." Lovino forced himself to sit up. "You're making me feel like a fucking baby all over again."

They lifted him out, with minimal complaints from Lovino, and placed him in the boat. But he didn't want to lie down just yet; he wanted one last view of the sea, one that would last a hell of a long time, because he needed at least that long to get better and return.

"Hurry up,  _fratello_! We have to go!" called Feliciano as he approached.

"I know, but—" Something flashing caught his eye. "Wait—"

A familiar glint of gold. His chest tightened. A strange, bitter, horrible feeling rose in his throat.

"What is it, Lovino?"

He didn't answer. Already he had reached out and caught the necklace in his hand. And his heart plummeted down—down, down.

" _Antonio_."

"What?"

" _WHAT DID YOU DO TO ANTONIO_!?"

"I didn't—" Feliciano's eyes were wide, but in them Lovino saw more knowledge than innocence. And it chilled him.

"He jumped off," he whispered. "He jumped off and you fucking made him do it. How could you— _how could you_!?"

His breath was coming in short gasps.

" _Fratello, please, calm down—"_

" _BRING HIM BACK_!" Lovino scrabbled at the sides of the boat and hauled himself upright. "He's here somewhere—he's got to be! The water's shallower here—he can't have— _ANTONIO_!"

" _Fratello—"_

"Get the fuck away from me," he gasped. "Don't touch me. Don't—" The boat rocked dangerously as he tried to climb up. "Even if you don't, I'm going to find him. I'm going to fucking find him and—and—"

" _Lovino, please_!"

"Should we?" said one of the men, but Lovino couldn't care who it was. He couldn't leave Antonio alone out there. He had to—

"Ah!"

And then something solid hit his jaw and he was tumbling backward into someone's arms, but all he knew was that it wasn't Antonio, it  _wasn't Antonio_ , and the last thought before everything faded to black was that  _it couldn't be, it couldn't be, it couldn't be_.

* * *

He'd expected the water to be deathly cold, but surprisingly it wasn't. It parted easily wherever he moved; he felt light as air. How interesting that he'd always been traveling  _on_ the seas, without ever being  _in_ it and knowing what it was really like.

From here he could tell he was only a short distance from shore. To avoid being shot at he had swum out of sight of the ship—swum as best as he could, anyway.

Antonio went on towards the west side of the shore, where he could see the land was a little higher and mostly deserted. He could rest there for a while; maybe, if he was lucky, someone would come by and help him.

Halfway before he got there, he heard loud voices in the distance—the direction of the ship. But he couldn't see it, and it was death to go back now.

He'd made a decision. Lovino had told him to stay safe. He would. And if he could, if he could—he'd go back and check on him. Just to make sure he was getting better. If Antonio was lucky he might get to see him alone—just maybe...

The ground was hard as he collapsed on it, but he'd never been more grateful to be on land. He was so tired already; all he wanted to do was sleep, sleep away all his pain and sorrow and fear.

But yet again, fate intervened.

"Looks like the dread pirate Antonio survived, hm? I have to commend you on your swimming skills. Really, I never thought I'd see you here."

Quick as a flash Antonio leaped up and stared wildly at the apparition before him. Because it could only be an apparition. There was no way he could have lived through the fires. There was no way.

"You—how—"

"Oh, I have my ways."

"You've come back to haunt me, haven't you, you little—"

"Sure I have. I'm a ghost. Now try explaining this."

And Arthur Kirkland punched him in the face.


	13. Wrong Turns

The Englishman laughed as Antonio staggered.

"There now, that was substantial enough, wasn't it?"

But there was nothing humorous in it for Antonio. His left eye pulsed with pain. Already it was beginning to swell shut.

With his right eye and both hands he grabbed Kirkland by the collar.

"It was you," he gritted out.

Kirkland raised a questioning eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"It was  _you_." Antonio dragged him closer. "You sent that man to kill me, and he got Lovino instead. It was you, wasn't it?" His voice was shaking. " _You_  were behind all of it!"

" _What_?" The Englishman looked affronted—no, more than affronted. "Now why in the world would I—"

He stopped as Antonio's fingers closed around his neck.

"Don't worry," Antonio whispered, leaning forward until they were eye to eye. "I'll make it quick, just so the city won't wake up to hear your screaming. I'll kill you right here, right now. Unless you have any last words. You'd better say them now."

"I didn't do it."

"If only you could prove it," Antonio said patronizingly. "But it's too late for that."

He did not let go. Kirkland made no move to push him away. But the Englishman did reach into his belt. There was a glint of metal. A dagger appeared in his hand.

He held it out before Antonio.

"Take it."

Uncomprehending, Antonio stared at him.

"I said, take it," Kirkland growled impatiently. "You want to kill me. So take the damn blade and do it!"

Antonio's mind whirled. Any moment now some survivor of Kirkland's men might appear and send an arrow through him. He could be ambushed from behind. Or Kirkland himself would take advantage of the lapse, kick him, snatch the dagger back or pull out another, and kill him. His mind ran through all these possibilities in a flash. He was fully prepared for all of them.

He loosed his right hand and took the dagger.

Still Kirkland stood there, unmoving, even as Antonio slowly lifted the blade to his neck. He smiled a small smile.

"I never was an innocent man, except this once. So do as you wish."

The Spaniard paused for a split second, the moment weighing upon him. Here was the man who had plagued the seas for more years than anyone else. Here was the sole obstacle to Antonio's dreams of glory. He existed only to kill, to maim, to steal. His was the business of human misery. He had nearly taken Lovino with him—whether by his own hand or not, he had brought it about.

And here was the moment of truth—his payment for his misdeeds. He was going to repent. He was going to offer up his life and leave the world a better place without him.

Antonio looked deep into the eyes of the man he had once so hated for so many reasons, the man he still did hate.

His hand trembled. The sharp metal against exposed flesh—it was right there, just waiting for a small movement—a little press, a little tap, and then—he could do it— _he could_ —

The dagger dropped from his hand.

Kirkland stared, silent, as the weapon hit the sand with a soft thud. Silence reigned. For a second the two men stood facing each other like stone statues.

And then Antonio spoke.

"I won't."

Slowly he turned and began walking away. But the Englishman called to him.

"What do you mean by this?"

"I'm sparing your miserable life," Antonio said without turning around. "What more do you need to know?"

"I want to know why."

The Spaniard laughed dryly. "I thought pirates like us weren't concerned with whys. We just do whatever we like and leave it that way."

"Except we're not pirates anymore," Kirkland pointed out.

"You must've gotten it wrong. Once a pirate, always a pirate. Isn't that what they say?"

Still the Englishman wouldn't leave him alone. Antonio had only just begun to walk faster when he heard Kirkland catching up.

"Not so fast!"

Then came a sound cuff to Antonio's shoulder, the one with the bad arm. Antonio didn't even react to the pain; glancing at Kirkland, he raised an eyebrow.

"That," said Kirkland harshly, "was for the stupid act with the dagger, you mushy-hearted excuse for a pirate."

Antonio remained staring at him. And then a slow smile spread across his face.

"You can go die in a hole. Goodbye."

* * *

Somehow they ended up entering the city together.

In retrospect, Antonio regarded it as a necessity. If he could have done it any other way, Kirkland would never have been part of it. But one lone, bruised, seawater-drenched Spaniard staggering into the city on foot would certainly have merited unwanted attention—and there was no telling whether Feliciano's party might have spread news of him.

Besides, it was different traveling with an Englishman in tow. Or rather, being towed along by an Englishman. Not that Antonio had actually agreed to it, but—necessity again took precedence. And when it was mutual necessity, civilities somehow became easier.

They had planned all this out behind a stack of crates in a quiet alley—or rather Kirkland had done most of the talking—but even Antonio had to admit that it was the best course of action for the moment.

First it turned out Kirkland actually had two eyes.

He proved this point by removing his ridiculously conspicuous eyepatch, and what Antonio saw there made him start. The man had indeed two eyes, but different in color—one green, the other blue. He had been born with them.

As Kirkland explained it, the authorities were probably looking for a one-eyed Englishman and a two-eyed Spaniard. But now they were a two-eyed Englishman and one-eyed Spaniard. Exactly the opposite of whatever the wanted posters said. It was always the old tricks that worked.

"And I could just pass for a lost wealthy foreigner if I had the clothes," Kirkland mused, reaching somewhere into his damp shirt and bringing out a few gold coins. "But as you can see, that can definitely be arranged. Money always helps in cases like these. I thought you'd know enough to bring your own."

Antonio scowled at him, his tongue only tempered because Kirkland had given him two of the gold pieces. He would not put up with this for any longer than he should.

"So what will I be, then,  _Kirkland_?"

"You'd better call me Arthur or else they'd think you were my servant. Although having a servant sounds fairly pleasant, don't you—"

" _Arthur_."

Kirkland—or rather Arthur—smirked. "You'll have to play the part of my drunk friend who was stupid enough to start a fight in a bar. Which anyone can see from your black eye and slow face."

"Remind me why I'm here with you and not knocking you out cold this very moment."

"That doesn't need reminder," said Arthur cheerfully. "Now if you'll point me to the nearest shop where I can buy decent clothes, I might just be able to save your sorry ass and mine."

Antonio glared at him.

"Go out, turn right, walk straight ahead until you see the tailor's shop, and then turn right again. I saw it when we were coming over here. They sell used clothes. That's the best you'll get. Make sure you look poor and beg as much as possible—I mean bargain."

"Of course that was what you meant. Git."

" _Hijo de puta_ ," Antonio made sure to whisper loudly before Arthur vanished around the corner as instructed.

Finally the Spaniard had a moment to himself in the musty smelly air of the alley. But there was nothing to do, and he found his thoughts wandering again to a certain Italian. Something in his chest ached at the remembrance; he had now no way of knowing whether Lovino was all right. Only Feliciano's word, and his word on his own brother should be trusted, but Antonio couldn't just settle for that.

They had taken him here to Venice and planned to stay—that meant the villa was still here. Antonio still remembered how to get there, although not from this point precisely; he would have to ask where it was, or begin from the Grand Canal. Then he would only have to rely on his feet to get him there.

He wondered whether much had changed in the thirteen years since he had left. But that brought back memories he didn't want to dwell on. So Antonio wiped his mind free of them and took stock of his surroundings instead.

A quick glance upward told him he was no longer alone. They should have paid more attention to where they were talking beforehand—although Arthur's shoddy Italian and his own bad English were probably incomprehensible unless one listened closely. Still he could see a clothesline stretched across the alley. A woman was hanging clothes on it from the left, in a second-story window. Instinctively he ducked lower behind the crates. The water from the drying clothes dripped down on him, and suddenly a small white something came fluttering down from above.

" _Merda_ ," he heard the woman say, and she disappeared from the window. There was no time to waste; Antonio darted out from his hiding place and picked his way out between the boxes, trying not to make noise. The white bundle caught his eye; it was a clean white shirt, dry, which had fallen from the clothesline.

Well, it was just one shirt, he thought guiltily, discarding his own and slipping it on. After a second's thought he took out one of the gold coins and laid it on top of the pile he had left. That was a fair enough trade.

And at least he looked decent now. His trousers were still rather damp, but they were presentable enough. He did not warrant a second glance on the busy streets, not even with his black eye—which was Arthur's fault.

Speaking of Arthur, he still had not returned...

"So you were actually going to leave without me, huh?" said the familiar English voice, seemingly out of nowhere. Arthur appeared beside him, dressed in fairly well-made clothes. "I certainly wouldn't put it past you."

"Shut up."

Arthur took hold of his arm. "Be still, my drunken friend. I've found a room for you, just over here, and there's plenty of wine too! Just come with me..."

Grumbling, Antonio followed him—making sure to do his best drunk impression and slouching against him so his face was shadowed. No one took much notice of them; it seemed they were in one of the more common quarters of the city, and they kept to the shadows. But if they had been on the wealthier streets they would instantly have drawn attention.

A few minutes was all it took for them to reach a small inn, with a faded sign that read  _The Singing Mermaid_. Nothing from its exterior supported the fancy title. The windows were slightly dusty and the door creaked on its hinges. Nevertheless Antonio was forced to go inside, though not very obediently.

The innkeeper was a sleepy-looking man with the wildest brown hair Antonio had ever seen; he stood almost with his eyes closed at the counter, barely taking any notice of the Englishman and Spaniard. Secretly Antonio was grateful that Arthur had chosen this inn and not another—they would hardly be suspected here. Especially with such an innkeeper.

"Oh, you have come," he said in a slow, easy voice. "Your room is upstairs. I will send something for your friend shortly." This last bit was addressed to Arthur, who gave a nod.

Then they went up the stairs. Halfway there, however, Antonio stopped pretending to be drunk and resisted Arthur's attempts to drag him along.

"Why did you only get one room? I'm not sleeping in the same bed with you."

"Neither am I," Arthur shot back. "You smell like shit."

"I'm leaving."

"Go right ahead then. You can get killed on the street for all I care, since I got into the city safe already. Besides, I'm leaving by boat in a few days." By this time they were already inside.

Antonio stared at him. "What?"

"What? I'm leaving the city. Did you think I was going to stay here forever?" Arthur closed the door before lowering his voice. "Listen up, idiot. I've seen the posters around here. We're wanted dead or alive. They haven't got our faces, but they will soon. I'm not going to wait around for them to catch me, and if you have any brains in your head, neither will you."

"But—"

"Oh, you still want to see your Italian lover." Arthur shrugged. "Well, don't expect me to wait for you then."

"I'm going to find him."

"You do know how dangerous that is, don't you? Going right up to the family that most wants you dead. Probably  _not_  a damn good idea."

"I don't care, I'm going anyway," said Antonio. "But why do  _you_  care? There isn't anything in it for you."

Arthur glared. "Now look here, you imbecile. I'm not going to argue this shit over with you. I'm only saying that being separated won't be good for either of us."

"Whatever." No matter what motive Arthur might have in mind, it was probably not a positive one. Once they reached wherever the ship took them, he'd likely strike out on his own and try to establish a pirate crew again, or something of that sort. And of course he'd try to recruit Antonio along with him. "What advice do you have for me then, wise man?"

"Well, listen. If you're coming with me on that ship, you'd better make it back within three days. Or else you'll get caught and you'll die. That's all I can say."

Antonio thought it over. It was a difficult job. One side of him kept screaming for Lovino, needed to feel his warmth and taste his lips and hold him close. The other told him Arthur was speaking sense for once, that he would have to leave in order to keep the promise he had made. He could not reconcile the two, could not do both things at once...

By the time he had reached a decision, it was already nighttime. Arthur had draped himself over the bed and fallen asleep. Still Antonio sat in his corner and brooded. And then he stood and went over to the window.

It would begin tonight.

* * *

In another part of the city, the same night and the same stars shone over quite a different scene. The Vargas villa was well-lit and well-guarded; the windows in one of the higher floors shed their own light. And if one were to look in, a noisy fuss would meet the eye.

Inside a wounded Italian had awoken and was yelling his head off. Servants were running to and fro, trying to tend to him, and his brother had only just entered to try to calm him down.

" _Fratello! Fratello_ , what's wrong—"

"Get Antonio back for me! Find him! Find him right now, you assholes, or else I'll do it myself!"

And to make good on his threat Lovino pushed himself up, letting out a pained grunt as he did so. Feliciano rushed forward to help him, but Lovino only pushed him away. He did the same with any of the servants who dared come near.

"If you don't bring him back alive, I—I'll go after him!" he shouted, coughing a little.

The room fell deathly quiet. There was no mistaking what he had just said.

Suddenly it was Feliciano's turn to shout.

"Stop it, Lovino, just  _stop!_   _STOP!"_

"Why should I?"

"He's a  _pirate_ ,  _fratello!_  How could you? Of all the people you had to go after, you had to—"

"Don't you say a fucking word about him or else—"

" _He's not respectable and he's a MAN! How could you!?"_

Lovino fell silent and gave him a long, hard stare. So did the servants; they were likely shocked by this scandalizing information. The Vargas heir, in love with a  _man_ , and a pirate at that?

But Lovino didn't care.

"I knew him when we were both children. And I don't give a fuck what anyone says. I want him back and  _you will bring him back."_

His eyes flashed with a perilous anger that no one in the household, not even Feliciano, had ever seen. All shrank back from the wave of his fury. And at last Feliciano relented.

"He's probably alive," he said quietly. "My men were going to take him to prison, but Giorgio said he wouldn't go and jumped off instead. He told me he found footprints on the sand near where we landed. He's in Venice somewhere."

During the explanation Lovino sat still, his face settling into almost complete calm. Then at the very end he tried to get up again.

"I'm going to look for him."

"No, you're  _not_ _."_  Feliciano stopped him with one arm and held him as he started wheezing. "I'll send Giorgio and the others tomorrow morning. And if they find him, they  _will_ bring him back this time. I'll make them tell him you want to see him. If he really cares about you, he'll come here."

"Good," Lovino whispered. "Good. I'll be waiting." He lay back down on the bed, sighed, and closed his eyes. In minutes he was asleep, the first true rest he had had since they had left the ship.

Quietly Feliciano signaled to the servants still remaining in the room, the ones who hadn't fled before Lovino's outburst. Dutifully they filed out through the doorway. Feliciano was the last to go, lingering to look at his brother's serene face one last time before he blew out the little flame in the lamp on the table, bathing the room in darkness.

"You don't know what you're doing,  _fratello,_ " he said, almost to himself, and then he shut the door.

* * *

It was not a long way to the Grand Canal and its bridges. Antonio only had to ask a merchant going home with his wares. But he could have spoken with more if he liked; there was no fear of being recognized on the darkened streets.

He knew there were few gondolas about this late at night, and he had no reason to call one, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Instead he allowed his feet to take him along the well-traveled path, the one he had taken many a day to Lovino's home when he was a child. Strolling along the side of the canal with only starlight as his guide, Antonio felt as if he were young again, young with the promise of a free and bright future. He took a breath of the cool air and allowed it to settle inside him.

Without stopping, he followed his instinct, crossing a bridge, passing through this street, turning a corner to another. His feet and his heart told him where he should go. And finally he arrived at his destination.

He paused behind a slim tree which had been planted along the street sides. There before him was the beautiful villa, which he had once regarded with a boy's eyes, as something towering and powerful and insurmountable. Now Antonio thought nothing of it. As he watched a light flickered in one of the eastern wings—the same place where little Romano, now Lovino lived.

On an impulse he made a move toward that direction, but in the same moment noticed the guards ringing the grounds. There would be no strolling out below the stars; he would be caught, recognized, and probably taken to prison. Antonio darted behind the shadows of the trees alongside the street, and slipped quietly towards the villa, unnoticed by the guards.

Below Lovino's window—he was sure it was Lovino's window—one of the tallest trees had stretched its branches. Here was a stroke of luck; he grabbed the lowest branch, careful not to make any creaking noises, and hauled himself up. The tree limbs parted easily and soon he found himself at the top, high enough to look inside. He did so.

Although it was late, and the light in the room was dim, Antonio could clearly see the face of the man sitting up in bed. Lovino had never looked more sad and more alone. His hazel eyes, which Antonio had always seen flashing with brilliant anger or heartfelt emotion, were quiet and lusterless. His hands lay idle at his sides. He sat like a marionette waiting to be moved. And as Antonio watched him his heart beat powerfully and his mouth opened to speak.

"Lovino," he would say, and Lovino would look up at him, his eyes would regain their glow, Antonio would climb through the window and catch him in his arms. He would kiss him, hold him tightly, whisper to him that he loved him and would never let him go. And everything would be all right again.

But as Antonio opened his mouth to speak, he saw something which stopped him short.

For Lovino was not alone in the room. By the light of the flickering lamp a girl was working, bending over a pan with a cloth which she was soaking. A minute later she finished, and made her way over to Lovino. Something in Antonio's chest clenched as she moved closer to wipe the Italian's face.

"Feeling better?" he heard her ask.

"Yes," said Lovino—that familiar well-loved voice, directed toward that girl!—and smiled a small smile. "It's late; you shouldn't be here."

"Oh, you jest! Why can't I be here? I have every right to."

She also smiled. Antonio saw her smile by the weak light: it was a beautiful smile, and she had a beautiful face. Perhaps that too pleased Lovino, because he patted her hand.

"There now, Chiara. You don't need to be mother to me too. Go sleep or you'll ruin your pretty face."

The girl he called Chiara gave a chuckle. "I knew you had a silver tongue; you need to use it more often. You could move worlds with it if you just tried."

"I try," said Lovino, lying down. "But when I try you'll have to listen."

"Oh, you..."

She bent down to kiss his forehead, and patted his cheek. "Sleep well, all right? I'll be back tomorrow morning."

Lovino gave her another smile. "Goodnight."

The beautiful girl took her leave of him, blowing out the flame in the lamp once again, and closing the door behind her. The room was once more enveloped in darkness.

And Antonio remained where he sat, his hands growing numb from bracing himself against the wall, his heart still and cold. He was there for what seemed like ages, unmoving, unfeeling, unbelieving. Because what he had seen could not be true, and yet it was.

Ages later, he reached into his pocket and brought out a folded scrap of parchment. He stared at it for a moment, as if he would very much like to burn it. But at last he decided against it, and leaned near the window once more, letting it fall on the sill and flutter to the floor.

Then he made his way to the ground, leaving as silently as he had come.


	14. Love's Labors Lost

Lovino had forgotten how criminally bright the sun could be in Italy. It streamed through the open window, striking his eyes with a vengeance, and he cursed loudly at it before reaching over to yank the curtains shut angrily. Only when the room was suitably dark did he finally open his eyes.

And that was how he spied the small slip of paper on the floor.

Instantly his heart and mind leapt to irrational conclusions. It had to have been Antonio who'd left it. No doubt he'd come in the middle of the night—Lovino cursed his own weakness, he should've been awake then—and no one else would have reason or ability to climb to his window like that.

But the note... he strained to reach it, his side protesting the action, but at last he managed it without tearing his wound open. With shaking fingers he unfolded it. The message was hardly a message, but even the sight of the familiar writing took a weight off his chest that he hadn't realized was there.

_The Singing Mermaid. Heracles Karpusi. Ask for me and he will know._

_Antonio was all right!_  Most likely he hadn't had enough time to write the note—Feliciano still kept just as many guards as before, if not more, since Lovino's disappearance—and this must be where he was hiding. All Lovino had to do was go meet him.

But he quickly realized it wasn't happening—any movement in any direction produced a sharp pain in his side, as if he might injure himself all over again. He remembered what the doctor had said while he'd been half-conscious: that any strain could worsen his internal injuries, which would bleed, and then there would be no hope for him after that.

He lay back down, more angry than truly fearful. But his mind was whirling through possible plans of action. If he couldn't go he'd have to send someone else… but the problem was choosing the  _right_ someone…

Suddenly footsteps echoed up the stairs and Lovino heard voices, one female, one male.  _Sorella_ and  _fratello_ , come to check on him. He gave a loud groan and quickly slipped the note under his blankets, just as the door opened with a bang and the pretty girl bounded into the room.

"Lovino! You're up already! How do you feel?"

"Perfectly fine, except I can't fucking move," he growled. The dark circles under his sister's and brother's eyes only added to his unease and guilt; here they'd been, worrying about him for who knew how long, and all Lovino had done upon returning was shout about running after Antonio. But then again they didn't know him like Lovino did… "Is there anything to eat? I'm starving."

"Oh!" Chiara turned to the servant behind her. "Fabio, bring us some food, won't you? If Paola isn't done yet, just give her a hand or something."

Lovino eyed the young man as he went obediently out without a word. Here was someone who could do the job, he thought. Fabio was slight of build, quick and not very talkative, though he had an honest look about the eye and face; he'd served the Vargas household from boyhood, and never complained. Not too young to be inexperienced, not too old for reluctance—just Lovino's age, where everyone understood each other. Yes, he would be the best choice.

"No fever, and he's in stable condition," announced the doctor, feeling Lovino's pulse with a wrinkled hand. Lovino hadn't even noticed he was there. "If  _signore_ rests for a few more weeks, perhaps a month, the recovery should commence quickly."

" _A few weeks!?"_

" _Sì, signore,_ that is the only way," the doctor said gravely. "Although I have medicine that can stop pain, it is best not to move for the time being."

"He's right,  _fratello_. Now please calm down." Feliciano's face was surprisingly stern; Lovino couldn't recall the last time he'd seen him like this, like an older brother almost. Everyone seemed to have changed since he was gone. "Now if you'll eat a little and get some rest like  _Dottoro_ just advised—"

"I  _know_ ," said Lovino irritably. "You don't see me moving."

"Ah, here he is!"

Chiara stopped both of them, clapping her hands together as Fabio entered the room with a tray.

"Paola couldn't send up the maids," he said quietly. "Aria and Anna are out in the market, Maria is missing, and the others are washing—"

"Maria? Why, where is she? I thought I saw her yesterday night..." And Chiara left quickly, her pleasant face worried. Feliciano dismissed the doctor and gave Lovino a long, hard stare.

"She doesn't know yet about... the Spaniard," he said carefully, avoiding Antonio's name. Well, he certainly had no qualms revealing this particular secret to Fabio. "Don't tell her; it'll only worry her further."

Lovino blinked slowly at him. "I  _won't_."

"Good." Feliciano still looked disapproving—what the hell was up with him?—and glanced away for a second. They heard Chiara calling his name from down below, and he sighed and turned to the door. "Fabio, help him for me. When you're done come find me—there's something I want you to do later." Then he, too, exited the room.

Fabio was quiet for a minute, as was his wont, but his brown eyes fixed intelligently on Lovino.

"Did you have something to tell me, sir?"

Here was a sharp one, Lovino thought, beckoning him over and pushing aside the tray. "I can eat by myself; I don't need anyone's help for that. But tell me, Fabio, have you any family?"

"Yes," replied Fabio without expression. "A mother and a younger sister."

"Well then. You will leave this afternoon because your mother is sick." The young man gazed steadily at him. "I need you to follow the instructions here" —Lovino brought out the note— "and find for me a Spaniard called Antonio. Then come back and tell me everything."

"Yes, sir." Fabio allowed the note to be placed into his hand. He did not open it, only glanced at it with interest. "I will keep it a secret if you so desire."

"That's exactly what you'll do. If you can go later, and come back before supper, I'll give you twice the pay you usually earn, and in advance. Understand?"

The young man bowed. "It shall be done, sir."

"All right then. You may go."

After Fabio had gone, Lovino sat and regarded the food before him, without hunger or interest. At last he ignored it in favor of his thoughts. In the almost-darkness of his room it was easy to imagine some tall Spaniard hiding in the shadows, waiting to surprise him with his arrival; it was easy to imagine how things would be when they were together again. He was almost a part of Lovino, with him all the time.

"Damn it," he whispered to himself, clenching the sheets. "Antonio... you'd better come back..."

* * *

True to his word, Fabio was gone by afternoon, under the pretense of going to visit his mother. No one had questioned him, a reassuring fact for Lovino, who still slept only fitfully in his absence.

Evening soon arrived, and the sun began to set, casting its last rays through Lovino's drawn curtains. After realizing for the hundredth time he couldn't get up as he'd used to, the Italian lay and stared at the ceiling. If Fabio was true to his word he'd be back in a few minutes, probably with good news of Antonio— _most definitely_  with good news of Antonio.

Raising himself up halfway, he glanced out the window. The path underneath was dark, but in the dim light of the lamps the guards carried he could see a shadow moving under the trees. Slim and not very tall—it had to be Fabio. Lovino waited a good five minutes, allowing him time to enter through the back gate, and then called up one of the maids.

"Is Fabio back yet? I need to talk to him." He made his voice sound appropriately stern. The girl nodded and went downstairs to carry out his order.

Still Fabio seemed to take his time. It was, to Lovino, almost ages before the sound of his light footsteps could finally be heard. By the time Fabio entered the room Lovino was nearly out of his mind.

"What did you hear?" he all but shouted. "Tell me!"

Carefully the young man shut the door behind him before approaching, his face devoid of emotion.

"I went to  _The Singing Mermaid_ as you instructed,  _signore_. Heracles Karpusi was there, the innkeeper. I asked him where I could find a Spaniard named Antonio..."

"What did he say?"

"He said..."

" _What did he say?"_

"He said... Antonio left. He... ran away in the morning when the authorities came questioning. Heracles said he was with an Englishman."

Lovino's heart stopped beating for a split second and a wave of cold washed over him.

"He left...?"

"Yes... but he also left a note with Heracles. He said it was for you, sir..."

No sooner had Fabio produced the note than Lovino snatched it from his hand, opening it so quickly he almost tore it at the fold.

_Dear Lovino,_

_By the time this reaches your hand—if it does reach your hand—I'll probably be on some ship sailing north. Either because I had to avoid being captured, or because... well, that part doesn't really matter. I don't want to get caught and endanger you by being here. I know a lot of people have heard of us by now. There are rumors going around in the streets._

_I didn't want it to be this way. I wanted to lay low for a while until the danger passed, then return and find you. But I guess I have to do this somewhere other than Venice—that's probably for the best. Don't worry about me, I'll be safe. I don't know when I'll come back... but I won't forget you. In spite of everything... I won't ever forget you.  
_

_And if you love me, Lovino, if you ever loved me, instead of someone else—please don't forget me either. Please._

_I love you._

_\- Antonio_

* * *

He couldn't remember a time when nightmare had become so much like reality. He was running, running toward something, or  _someone—_ someone he wanted to see so badly,  _so badly_ —and he kept stumbling, kept running into things, while that someone slowly but surely slipped further away.

The courtyard was quiet, and he had left through the back gate; there was almost no one here, save the few guards, and Lovino could just stagger past them if he were quiet enough. He had told Fabio to get a horse ready for him.

He would ride to Heracles' inn and force him to tell where Antonio had boarded the ship, where he had planned to go. Then he would follow and find him. Surely he couldn't have gone too far. It hadn't even been a day. And ships traveled slowly on shallower water.

With every heartbeat reverberated the name. Antonio.  _Antonio_. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't. He needed Antonio. He needed those strong arms around him, those gentle lips against his, that solidity, that security. He needed him like he needed air and sustenance. And now—Fate was being cruel to them, to Lovino, so cruel.

Nowhere ahead of him did he see a horse. But maybe it was somewhere in the shadows and he, without a light, had simply overlooked it. Wildly he turned—perhaps it was over to the right—made in that direction, bracing himself against the clattering pain of his wound and the weakness of his limbs.

And then his foot caught onto something—a stone or a root—and he tumbled to the ground. There was no one to catch him, not even Antonio—he heard voices shouting his name, but none of them was the Spaniard's—he breathed Antonio's name one last time, willing him to hear, and then darkness closed over him.

* * *

Fabio had been faithful to his more sensible master. At the first sign of the older Vargas' mad plan to go running into the night, he had trusted his better judgment and told Feliciano, despite the violent reaction he received. Feliciano had gone so far as to accuse Fabio of falsehood, especially when he'd gone to see Lovino and confirmed him to be all right. Then Chiara had gone to check on him at eleven o'clock and found his bed empty, the back gates swinging open, Lovino lying in a heap near the trees.

Though his bruises were minor and his wound had thankfully not grown worse, Lovino was not the same after they brought him back. He made physical improvements, seemed on the way to recovery from his injuries; he was quiet and docile enough, but often sat listlessly and stared into space, speaking almost to no one. Occasionally they'd hear him murmur something which sounded suspiciously like "Antonio." But no one dared comment on it.

He also seemed to be waiting for letters of some sort, and would demand this incessantly of whichever unfortunate maid or man happened to pass by. If he received an answer in the negative, he would sit sullenly or start shouting enough to shake the walls. Feliciano had no way of calming him when he was in one of these moods; Chiara tried, but for some reason Lovino avoided her in particular.

One day when the two other Vargas siblings were away and Fabio instructed to keep the house in order, Lovino summoned him to his bedside. He looked outwardly calm, but he had a strange request.

"Send this letter to Antonio for me," was all he said.

Fabio was about to protest that no one had heard from Antonio in a month, that whoever knew would probably have turned him in to the authorities, but wisely he kept his mouth shut. So he took the letter and retreated. At first he had debated on giving the letter to Feliciano or Chiara, but that would only spark argument; throwing it away would be too hardhearted of him. And because he was a servant, and therefore much invested in his master's business, he finally decided to read it.

_Dear Antonio,_

_Where the fuck did you go? Why haven't you come back? You said you'd never leave me. I've been waiting for you for ages and it's driving me mad. I miss you, you know. Miss you so much it hurts enough to kill. I hear your voice in my head every day, hell, I even see you in the dark sometimes when no one else is around._

_But where are you? Why aren't you here?_

_I still have your letter, you know. I read it all the time. Why did you write that part—"if you loved me, instead of someone else"? I do love you, you know—so much. Everything about you—your voice and your smile and the way your eyes shone so bright when you laughed. And how warm you were and how soft your lips felt when you kissed me. That heroic expression of yours whenever you had to do something important. It's not fair how you take over my life like this, you stupid pirate. You've taken everything with you and left me nothing. Fucking come back to me. Come back and make things right again. Don't leave me here alone because I can't stand it. Please._

_Antonio._

_Please come back._

* * *

Lovino never asked what became of his letter, and Fabio never found a right time to say it. But both of them knew when another few weeks passed, that there wouldn't be an answer.

The villa became increasingly quiet, even though it should have been a good thing that Lovino Vargas had finally returned and would not be kidnapped by pirates again. Oftentimes Feliciano would pace up and down, brooding, while Chiara bent over her sewing and shed a silent tear or two. Fabio and the other servants would observe them worriedly from the sidelines, not knowing what to do with their masters and mistress when they were in this state. Only the older ones, like Paola, could sufficiently comfort them.

Almost three months had passed since the day Lovino attempted his escapade. Still no one spoke of it. Sometimes Lovino would look out his window towards the spot where the road was shadowed by trees, and his eyes would grow unbearably sad.

Fabio, seeing his master like this, wanted desperately to do something to reverse it. He still remembered the days when young Lovino had thrown temper tantrums and flung toys on the ground for him to pick up. It had been a long time since then. Long enough for Lovino to grow older and much more rash. He rather wished Lovino would assign him some ridiculous task that didn't involve a Spaniard, which Fabio would perform ridiculously and thus excite a laugh from him. At least things would be more cheerful then.

But they weren't.

It was three months to the fateful day, three months and three hours to be exact. The great house was quiet and its inhabitants were still. And then Fabio, strolling outside the grounds on his way to the market, was accosted by an oddly dressed young man on foot, a man with the fair hair and blue eyes of the north.

"Is this the way to the Vargas villa?" he asked.

"What is your business there?" Fabio countered just as smoothly.

"I have been sent here—I have an urgent message for him."

"Signor Lovino Vargas?"

"The very one."

"Well, he is not available to see anyone at present. I am his servant. I will take whatever information you give me, and pass it on to him."

The young man nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable, and brought out from his bag a small envelope. This he gave to Fabio, along with a few whispered words, before turning back the way he had come and strolling off.

Fabio, thoroughly confused and not a little excited, decided to postpone his trip to the market in favor of rekindling the light in his master's eyes.

And in that endeavor he was not disappointed.


	15. Heart to Heart

_Dear Lovino,_

_How are you? How have you been?_

_I've been trying to send you this for a while now. But I couldn't and I have no way of telling you how sorry I am. I'd have come right to your door with these words on my lips, if I could. But I can't leave without being suspicious, and the only man I trust with this is Alessandro. He's the blond northerner who delivered this, and he'll bring me whatever you send and keep it secret._

_But I'm presuming things, am I not? If you're angry with me or hate me, even, for disappearing this long, I don't blame you. You have a right to; but I was—well, what can I say? I only want to make sure you're fine._

_I said I wouldn't forget you. I haven't. You've been in my thoughts day in and day out, every minute and every second. I don't know why I keep thinking of the past. I shouldn't bring up old things to quarrel about, but I can't let it go. And if I'm right and you haven't, either... I might as well try and make up for it, as well as I can._

_I still remember everything like it happened yesterday. That night before I left, I did come to your house. It's still hard to think about it now... You were with that girl, remember? I was at the window and saw you two. You called her Chiara. You seemed to have such affection for her, and you looked content enough. So I went back. Hurt pride and hurt feelings and all that. Arthur called me a stupid weakling and he's probably right._

_Yes, he's Arthur Kirkland—somehow he survived and helped me run away when people came looking. They weren't your men; we couldn't stay any longer or else we'd be caught and hung. I had the note left with Heracles, but that was before I came to your house. I didn't have any time to leave a more detailed one. We boarded a ship secretly and went to the north. That's where I am now._

_It's safe, and none of the rumors have gotten here. I'm just another Antonio among many, and I work in the shipyards loading things. At least I can say that now, I'm an honest man... I actually earn my own money and it's peaceful here—no fights, no violence, no deaths. Everyone is civil and just. I should be happy. Except—_

_I miss you._

_I don't have anything anymore that reminds me of you, except what's in my head. I think of you so much I'm probably going insane. I don't know why I still do this. I should let go since you've moved on and found someone else. But I can't._

_I'm sorry, Lovino. I'm sorry for causing you undue pain. I want you to be all right. Take good care of yourself and the ones you love. For yourself, and for the lonely man writing this._

_Antonio_

* * *

_Dear Antonio,_

_If I knew where you were, this would be the fourteenth letter you received from me. But it sounds like you haven't gotten any of them, since you wrote out of the blue to ask after me. That's all right. What's another letter, as long as you actually receive it this time?_

_Thank Alessandro for me, though. I believe I scared him when I asked him where you lived, and he wouldn't tell me. I hope he does next time._

_But you know what else I would do if I were you?_

_If I were you, I would throw down whatever paper I'm writing on, remove my damn ass from my damn chair, find a horse or ship or whatever the fuck it takes to get back to Venice, and come here so Lovino Romano Vargas can beat the shit out of me._

_I would do it, too._

_In all my short days I have never met a more idiotic, sentimental, heartsick bastard and I have never loved such a bastard so much. If you had been jealous I could have stood it. If you had been mean—well, that's another story. But you fucking jumped to conclusions and gave me—of all the damn things in the world—an **imaginary lover**._

_That girl you were going on about—by the way, her name (maiden name) is Chiara Vargas. That's right. **Vargas**. She is my one and only sister, she is about to be married to a wealthy Sicilian, and I would thank you to fucking remember that before I smack myself for not having told you beforehand. Goddammit, Antonio. Is that really why you left and didn't send word for  **three fucking months**?_

_You have no idea what I went through when you were gone. No fucking idea. I don't even want to write about it._

_It's not all right what you did to me, Antonio. You could have confronted me about it. You could have stayed somewhere closer. I could have helped you hide instead of worrying over here. We could have made it work, and now it's all ruined because of a stupid misunderstanding—about nothing. I could say I hate you, but that's mentally impossible. I could say I'm angry—angry as **hell—** and that would be about right._

_You are one of the worst people I have ever known next to myself, and then some. But you're also the best. And if that's not the closest to forgiveness I can get in this minute, I don't know what is._

_If you don't write back, **immediately** , I will have search parties out to personally escort you back, in order to spare you the pain of having to make an excuse for leaving, wherever you are. They should trust you anyway. They'd better. Or I'd have to speak to them myself._

_Also, if that Arthur Kirkland is still there with you (which I hope he isn't) tell him I want his head on a spit, brought to me, now._

_Lovino_

* * *

_Dear Lovino,_

_I'm sorry. I don't suppose any amount of apologies will work now, but I still mean it. And if I must suffer blows by your hands I welcome them. But I'm writing this by candlelight aboard ship, and I think whatever attempt to get to Venice will be delayed for a while until I get back. Although it doesn't mean I won't try._

_It's almost surprising how much people think like you. Before he left Arthur Kirkland called me a stupid imbecile too. I'm sure he's right. But he's not here anymore to confirm that. Not that I killed him _—_ he went away a long time ago. When I first arrived here in Trieste he was all for moving on to northern Europe and starting some unsavory life up there, no doubt. I refused and we separated, but on fairly good terms. It wouldn't be the best to leave a former dread pirate hating you. But I guess that means you won't get his head. Maybe someday I'll go and bring it back._

_But enough on him. I don't care about him. Forgive me again if this is forward, but _—_ **te quiero**. I want you. Here. With me. Right now, if I could make that possible. I just want to hold you and never let go. Run my fingers through your hair and kiss you and make sure no one will ever hurt you again. It's my fault for making such a mess out of everything. When I see you again _—_ yes, when _—_ I'll be a different Antonio than I was before._

_But it's because of you. You, Lovino, with the bright eyes and the foul mouth and the ability to snatch my heart away. I can't do anything unless I come back to reclaim it. Although, now that I think about it, I can't and I won't._

_Because no matter what, my heart will stay with yours _—_ always._

_Antonio_

* * *

_Dear Antonio,_

_I punched Alessandro and told him to deliver it to you. I'm not sure he will, but if he doesn't, just come here personally next time so you can receive it from me. That's what you get for being a sappy bastard._

_Damn you, Antonio. Damn you for saying all those sweet things and making me_ [hastily blotted out] _want to hit you. Hard. I wish you were here so I could do it. But since you aren't and probably won't be for a while, I'm going to save you the trouble. We're only a few fucking days apart, you know that? I'm coming over here, right now, and if you receive this letter beforehand I commend you._

_I make no promises what I'll do to you when I see you again. I am not as angelic as you think. No way in hell. Too bad Arthur Kirkland won't be there, or he would learn to fear me as much as you will. But that's all right. There's plenty of time for everything I have planned out._

_You'd better get ready, Antonio. I am coming for you._

_And before this candle burns out _—_ I still have your necklace. Alessandro wouldn't promise not to sell it for money, until now. So if you don't get it, kindly brain him for me. You'd better have it when I get to Trieste, or else._

_Goddammit. I was going to write something else, but it's getting dark as fuck. Besides, I have **plenty**  to say to you when I see you again. You will not pass another day without my voice next to your ear. And no, I don't think I will kiss you, although you probably need it badly._

_Lovino_


	16. Reunificación

Sleep did not come to the Italian that night. He lay quietly on his bed after the candle burned out, still fully clothed, listening to his brother's and sister's voices down below, and the occasional step of servants past his door. It was all irritating noise to Lovino, who couldn't hear what was being said and had too much on his mind to care. After a long time the noise finally died down, along with the rest of the candlelight, leaving the halls in peaceful quiet.

Only now did Lovino stir. Fumbling about, he lit another candle, and by its light wrote a short note to Feliciano and Chiara. Not without a twinge of guilt, but hell if they knew what this departure meant to him. At least they knew he could take care of himself now. His wound was healed and he had more important things to do than sit around being pampered.

And at the top of his list was finding a certain Spaniard.

Quietly he removed the loose brick in the wall next to his bed. By the faint light he could just see his untouched store of money, wrapped in an old cloth—he had been saving it for a day like this. Lovino took everything and concealed it as best as he could in his clothes. That done, he went down into the courtyard, took a little food from the kitchen, and borrowed a set of old clothes from Fabio.

The sky had already begun to lighten, a pale blue-grey hue, by the time Lovino finally slipped through the heavy back gates to freedom. He walked quickly, and, making sure to avoid the main canals—where the gondoliers would surely recognize him—he made for the inn where Antonio had once stayed. _  
_

His timing was not far off. As he arrived at the door he found Alessandro was already there and preparing to set out. The blond northerner's blue eyes met Lovino's just once, rather coolly, and then he bowed very courteously.

"We are leaving together then,  _signore_?"

"Yes," Lovino said shortly. "For a while at least. And I have this for you to deliver later." He reached into his pocket and brought out the letter he had written a few hours since. Alessandro took it almost quietly until he saw the money which accompanied it.

"Antonio pays me, Signor Vargas," he explained for what must have been the thousandth time.

"Take it anyway."

"You gave me more this time,  _signore_. Is this for—"

"No, damn you, it is  _not_  an apology for when I punched you. And don't lose the letter."

"I would hope I haven't given you reason to doubt me," said Alessandro with a touch of irony. Lovino rewarded him with a few choice words for good measure, but they didn't seem to affect him.

Damn Antonio for telling him so much.

"Just hurry the fuck up," Lovino sighed, in a gentler tone this time. "And don't call me Signor while we're there."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, as the sun rose, they found themselves on board a cargo ship bound for Trieste. It was better this way, Alessandro assured him, since two men riding through the countryside could easily be attacked by bandits. There was also the question of speed.

Lovino had no time for such calculations, however. He was already busy arguing with the captain to do that for them.

"What do you mean, 'probably within the day'? How many hours? You've gone this way before, haven't you? You should know!"

It was hard to tell whether he was intentionally trying to be rude as opposed to quiet and therefore suspicious, or whether this was just the way he managed his daily affairs. Judging by the unfriendly encounters he had endured so far, Alessandro supposed the latter was most likely. Lovino's only good fortune, he thought halfheartedly, was that he had the wealth and status to do whatever he liked.

Still, everyone could use a little help now and then. Shaking his head, he shoved his way into the argument and pulled Lovino aside before he could start administering to the captain's thick skull.

"You will have to forgive my friend,  _Capitano_ ," said Alessandro quickly, stopping the man mid-insult. "He is simply anxious about a friend of his in Trieste, who is quite sick and wishes to see him. Things like these tend to take their toll on one's state of mind." And he patted Lovino sympathetically, or tried to, before he was roughly brushed off. The captain at least seemed to believe him and bestowed on Alessandro a much friendlier look.

"Well, I'll see to it that he has a quiet corner to rest," he said gruffly and ordered his sailors to do just that. Alessandro thanked him and made his way over to where Lovino sat stewing in his anger.

"You weren't telling the truth when you said he was sick, were you?" he hissed when they were both out of earshot.

"Of course not. You need to stop worrying about everything."

Lovino grimaced. "Every time you omit the word 'Signor' it hangs in the air like a dead weight."

"You told me not to say it."

"Still. This is strange. Or maybe it's just because I don't like you."

Alessandro rolled his eyes as Lovino looked off in the other direction. "I don't think either of us has a choice at the moment," he muttered.

He received only a glare in response, and received it calmly, not only because Lovino looked ridiculous with it but also because Antonio had told him to expect such things. It seemed Lovino had also been thinking along the same lines, because the next question out of his mouth had to do with the Spaniard.

"Tell me about Antonio."

"I have already," Alessandro tried, just to be difficult, but Lovino's face brooked no argument. He sighed. "Fine. You want to hear all I know about him, from the minute I met him?"

"Do I even need to say yes?" Lovino's eyes glittered. "Fucking tell me. If you've told me, tell me again."

Alessandro did so. It was not a very long tale. Then, as now, he had been a young servant; though at first under the employment of a cruel and unkind master, beside whom Lovino seemed almost an angel (here Lovino interjected with a well-placed insult, and a demand to skip the irrelevant things). He had run away and looked for work, which brought him to the shipyards of Trieste, which was where he found Antonio dripping wet from jumping off the ship.

"He really does like doing that, doesn't he?" Lovino grumbled to no one in particular.

"He asked me to help him, and I thought he might be a lawbreaker—but he looked too kind for that, and he didn't turn out to be. They needed more work in the shipyards, so I introduced him to it. He's been at it ever since. He treats me like a younger brother. I live with him—"

"You  _what_?"

"—and some of the other men in a small inn nearby. Very friendly our boss is, too. Anyway—"

"How is he now?" Lovino interrupted again. "Is he healthy? Does he eat and sleep well?"

"Do I look like I sneak into his room to check on him?"

" _Just answer my damn questions_."

"Well, by all appearances he's fine. He didn't get thin or get sick, if that's what you mean. He eats and sleeps like everyone else, or at least I think so." Alessandro paused for a minute. "The only thing I've seen out of the ordinary is that he looks sad. When he thinks no one sees him, he stares off into space and just sighs to himself."

"Fucking shit." Lovino bit his lip and glanced away, his face working. "That stupid bastard. As if I was any different—"

"He asks after you too, you know."

Lovino was silent then. He did not speak for a long time, and stared out past the ship's deck at the horizon, their destination a small speck across the sea. Now completely ignored, Alessandro observed him.

He was a strange man, he decided at last. Strange enough to become fixated on Antonio and not someone else half as wealthy as the Vargas family. But the look in his eyes, although it had been harsh a few minutes prior, was now softer and (for Lovino) almost kind. It was the look of someone truly in love, the same look Antonio had worn whenever he lapsed into his daydreams.

"Are we almost there yet?" Lovino shouted out yet again, earning only a vague reply from the captain. Once more he stood and marched over to have the last word.

Once more Alessandro followed him, wondering what in the world he had done to get stuck with such a companion.

* * *

Though three months had passed since his first day's work at the shipyards, Antonio still found it challenging to drag himself out of bed before dawn. Having his own say in daily affairs had been a luxury only known to pirate captains. But he had renounced it long ago and welcomed the hard work for all it was worth.

Today should have been no different, but it was. He could feel it in his chest, could feel it in the air. Even the sky seemed to dawn strangely slow, as though in preparation for something to happen. But there was only one thing Antonio wanted to happen, and he couldn't will it.

As the other sailors rose, he left his hammock and went up to the deck. The ship was nearing land—nearing Trieste, home. The captain was shouting.

"Get ready to drop anchor!"

His order was quickly obeyed as the ship approached the shore. Antonio was ready with the docking lines, and jumped off to secure them. The other men lowered the gangplank and he helped to set it against the ship. Then they began unloading the cargo the captain had brought back from their short trip to the nearby Italian ports.

According to the captain—even now it was strange referring to another as captain—according to him the trip had originally been intended to last a week. But some of the goods had been perishable and three days ago they had come back to Trieste to leave them. That was when Antonio had sent his letter off with Alessandro.

Three days and he might well be back, with news. It did not take long to sail from Trieste to Venice. Antonio could have done so himself... if only his work didn't require him to make such frequent appearances.

His heart still felt hollow whenever he thought of Lovino. What was he doing right now? If he had received the letter, there was no way he'd have missed Antonio's mention of Trieste. He could be coming at this very moment— _no_ , thought the Spaniard, quickly banishing that thought. It was best not to get his hopes up.

Working was always the remedy for such things. And he had work now. Lugging the crates took away just enough of his strength that he had none to spare for melancholy thoughts.

"Eh, Antonio," said one of his companions, a burly man called Lorenzo. "You're going the wrong way. We're putting them boxes over here this time." Someone nearby laughed.

"Sorry," Antonio answered, forcing a smile and wiping his forehead on his sleeve. He was tired, but there was no way he could admit it.

"Here." The man set down his crate and moved to help Antonio. "You've got a heavy 'un, anyway. Takes enough mindpower just figurin' how to lift it like you do."

The work was finished quickly, mostly because of people like Lorenzo, who was strong enough for two men. And then they had the rest of the morning to themselves, a rare freedom. Most of the men were all for going to the taverns, but that was the last thing Antonio wanted to do.

"Sure you don't want to go with us?" Lorenzo asked, putting a heavy hand on the Spaniard's shoulder. "You look like you could use a drink."

"No, I'm fine." Antonio gave him a more genuine smile and made his way back to the small inn near the shipyards. Distantly he could hear another ship docking, but didn't have the heart to go and watch it. It was none of his business now; his work was done for another hour or two and there were others taking his place.

He went all the way up to the entrance, then paused, his hand inches from pushing open the door. He knew what he would do when he went inside: go directly to his room, lock the door, and lie down. Then he would spend one or two hours staring at the ceiling, with thoughts of his Italian racing through his head. He might even read his letters over again, like he did every day.

At last Antonio thought better of it and crossed over to the woods, finding an abandoned tree stump and sitting down. It was quiet here, almost too quiet in the shade. He could still hear voices from the inn, and birdsong in the trees nearby, but it was all faint and muffled to his ears; his own heartbeat was louder. He found himself holding his breath with the tenseness of the surroundings, as though waiting for something, _someone_... but it might simply turn out to be nothing.

It always did—

"Antonio!"

He glanced up and saw the shock of blond hair and the youthful face with its barely concealed excitement. Alessandro was running—not walking, _running_ —with a letter clutched in his hand, his face glowing.

"He wrote back!"

Antonio's heart leapt and he reached for the letter, tearing it open eagerly. It was heavier than before; he soon found out why. A familiar golden chain fell out into his palm—his own necklace. Lovino had found it and sent it back.

Grasping it tightly, Antonio devoured the words written in ink on the page, and involuntarily a smile made its way to his face.

"He's coming...? Did he tell you this?"

Alessandro gave a nod; he looked as if he might leap up and disappear into the trees at any second. "He said he's coming to see you. He left right away after giving me the letter. Who knows, he could be here now..."

"You're—you're not serious," Antonio whispered disbelievingly.

"Since when is Lovino Vargas not serious?"

The new voice rang through the air like the peal of a bell, jarring Antonio's heartstrings and stopping him before he could draw breath. Rough, with that barely concealed undercurrent of affection—it was  _his_ voice.

Slowly Antonio looked up from the letter.

There he stood, several feet away, partly in shadow from the waving branches of the trees around them, looking achingly, heartbreakingly familiar. His brown hair was tousled by the wind, his eyes still that same intense shade of hazel. But Lovino's face had grown paler than Antonio had last seen it, slightly thinner; his gaze held a degree of sorrow that Antonio had become accustomed to feeling. There he stood, his mouth a stubborn tight line, waiting for Antonio to say something, to acknowledge his presence.

" _Lovino_ ," he said at last, and the still picture moved, running forward with impossible speed to meet him halfway in the clearing. The familiar warmth and strength of his arms snaked around Antonio's waist; he lifted his face to meet the Spaniard's. And that was how Antonio knew this was  _real_ —Lovino's lips against his, their arms around each other.

 _He was really here_.

" _Antonio_ ," the Italian whispered raggedly, holding onto him as if Antonio were his lifeline, as if he never wanted to break away again, never wanted to let go.

And he didn't let go.

Neither did Antonio.


	17. Penultimate Peril

"So... we're sinners now."

" _Sì_. So we are. What of it?"

Antonio let out a breathless, incredulous laugh.

"I never expected to hear that from  _you_ , Lovi..."

"You never expect anything at all," Lovino murmured into his neck. His voice was softer tonight, lacking its usual irritation. "Now shut up and let me sleep."

Antonio wasn't about to argue with that. Instead he ran one hand through Lovino's hair, brushing the damp brown strands from his flushed face, and trailed his way down to Lovino's neck and shoulder and arm. The Italian shivered as Antonio reached the long curved scar that still marked his side, but allowed him to touch it.

"You're not helping," he said, his voice thick.

"My only job is to be here with you and do whatever you like."

"Hm." Lovino pressed closer, the warmth of his bare skin sending tingles down Antonio's spine. He flung one arm tiredly over the Spaniard's shoulder. "Well, in that case... just... hold me."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

Antonio did so, and for a while they lay together under the blankets. He could hear Lovino's even breaths next to his ear, felt the steady beating of the Italian's heart, in unison with his own. Lovino's eyes were closed against the faint moonlight in the room, but Antonio knew that if he opened them they would be a clear, peaceful shade of hazel, the color that made his chest ache.

Gently he leaned closer and whispered an "I love you" against Lovino's lips, as naturally as if he had done so his whole life, and Lovino's eyes opened for a split second before he kissed back. Several blissful minutes later he drew away, but he was smiling—the first real, unshadowed smile Antonio had ever seen on him, like a ray of sunlight breaking through clouds.

"I guess I can't ever rest while you're around."

Antonio tightened his arms around him.

"I just... if I don't touch you, if I don't kiss you, I'm scared you might vanish at any moment."

He received a strange look from the Italian, an  _it won't happen, you must be dreaming_ look that only Lovino Vargas could accomplish while half-asleep, but it was muted by the softness in his gaze.

" _I_  should be the one worrying, not you," he murmured, and crushed his lips against Antonio's. This time neither wanted to break the kiss. Lovino's fingers tangled in his hair, his other hand gripping Antonio's shoulder and drawing him closer, deeper. His lips said what he himself could not, in so many gentle movements—he needed Antonio, needed him in every way. The Spaniard readily obliged.

"I'm not going to leave anymore," he whispered next to Lovino's ear. "Not now, not ever, my love... I swear it."

Lovino's mouth curved into a smile, a smile that Antonio felt and shared, and his hands reached up to hold Antonio's face tenderly.

"I love you too," he breathed, and no more was said the rest of the night.

* * *

The next few days passed by in a blur, and Antonio thought himself the happiest man in the world. He could not get enough of the fact that every morning, when he awoke, Lovino would be right beside him, making no move to leave because this was where he belonged, where Antonio belonged—with each other and no one else.

Antonio in his bliss would have given up his work, but remembered at the last minute that he had yet to become a man with good standing. He also remembered something else, three nights later.

They were down at the water's edge then, sitting at the dock and gazing at the sea. The moon was full and brilliant, a sliver of it reflected trembling silver in the velvety dark waves. All around them were the twinkling lights of the heavens, that Antonio could not see for Lovino's eyes. He had never seen the Italian look so content as he did right then, his head thrown back to take in the breeze and the sky and the stars.

"Have you ever thought about... how small the world really is?" he said, his hair ruffling slightly, speaking more to himself than Antonio. "Sometimes I look up at the sky and I feel like... like something tiny and insignificant among all these stars. As if we're only two small pieces in the great chess game of existence." He sighed. "At least we're playing it right so far."

Antonio thought of himself and the dangerous game he had only just given up after thirteen years. " _All the world's a stage_ ," he said absently.

" _And all the men and women merely players_ ," Lovino finished, his eyes on Antonio's. "So you've read it too?"

"Yes... when I was younger."

A short silence fell, and then Lovino moved closer and leaned awkwardly against him, his fingers finding Antonio's in the darkness and squeezing them reassuringly. He was so warm, so warm and comforting and wonderful, and Antonio's heart suddenly felt very full.

"Will you be staying, Lovino?" he asked, his voice thin in the cool night air. The Italian shifted.

"What do you mean? Of course I am."

"I mean... there's probably people looking for you. Won't you have to go back...?"

"No," said Lovino fiercely, turning to him, his whole face alight. "Not unless it's with you. I can't have it any other way. You'll come with me, won't you? Or I'll stay with you here."

"But they'll find out—the men here, they probably suspect things between us already. Especially Alessandro—"

"Who gives a fuck about Alessandro," Lovino interrupted. "He can think whatever he wants, as long as you swear him to secrecy. And—" He paused. "I sent him back yesterday, with a message for Feliciano and Chiara. To tell them I'm with you. I'm sure they'll understand..." His voice trailed off, and Antonio could tell where his thoughts were heading.

"You're not going to  _leave_  them, are you?"

"No, but—" Lovino sounded as if he were grasping for straws. "I can't give you up simply because they say so. I  _can't_. And I don't fucking care if anyone thinks this is wrong, because—" His voice caught. "Because you're—you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Antonio..."

Antonio reached out and pulled him close, holding Lovino securely as he trembled. It was so easy to think, in this moment, that out here at sea they could be far from all boundaries and restrictions and ridiculous customs, all the strange and meaningless rules of men. That, even if they were disobeying all the laws of nature, throwing caution to the wind, they could still live life happily and together.

He caressed Lovino's cheek, seeing in the dimness the expressive hazel eyes, saddened now, the Italian's straight nose, the soft shape of his mouth. There could not be a more handsome, more noble man to walk the face of the earth. And there could not be a luckier man than Antonio, to love and be loved by him so truly.

"We'll make it work," he whispered, and as the Italian gave a small nod against his shoulder, Antonio tilted his face up and kissed him passionately, never wanting the moment to end.

* * *

_He was walking through land that had once been dotted with small houses here and there. But the ground was barren and cracked, the houses abandoned wooden husks, ringed by the skeletal limbs of lifeless trees. The sun glared down on everything like a sentinel without mercy. And Lovino, turning this way and that, almost didn't realize where he was—until he spotted the faded spires of the distant yet still familiar city._

_Venice._

_With a sinking feeling he approached. It seemed to take forever, and yet almost suddenly he was there, among shells of buildings and abandoned canals. Everything was eerily silent. No one lingered in the shadows, no merchants in the marketplace called out their wares. The water was strangely devoid of gondolas and their merry crew._

_"Hello?" Lovino heard himself call, his voice echoing. No reply._

_His feet went on, one step in front of the other, as if being pulled forward by some unseen force. Every nerve in him was screaming to turn back, to avoid the well-known street that would lead him home; some warning voice inside him spoke ominously, in words he could not understand. His body would not obey his mind, and unstoppably, inexorably, he neared._

_The great villa met his eyes. Deserted; ruined._

_"Fratello!" he shouted, his heart sinking as he darted forward. "Sorella! Are you in there?"_

_No answer. Lovino rushed to the gates. They hung open like the jaws of a great dead animal, without any guards to flank them. Upon entering the courtyard Lovino discerned the general disrepair of the place. Clearly the villa had not been lived in for days, perhaps even weeks._

_"Fratello!" he shouted again. "FELICIANO! CHIARA!"_

_"Lookin' for the lord an' lady?" inquired a gravelly voice and Lovino spun around, to find himself face-to-face with an old man dressed in rags._

_"Who are you and why are you here?" Lovino demanded, ignoring the nervous feeling rising inside him. "Where is everyone? Tell me!"_

_"They left," said the man, his crooked grin exposing toothless gums. "You didn't hear? Where have you been, young sir? Do you not live near enough to know? There's been a—" He broke off, coughing painfully. Lovino grabbed him by the shoulders before he could get away._

_"What did you say?" A note of panic crept into his voice. "What has there been?"_

_The man's eyes rolled in his head and he laughed, a horrible croaking sound. "There's been—there's been—"_

_"TELL ME!"_

_"Something horrible," the sly voice taunted, seeming to come from all around him now. "Something horrible... and you weren't here to save them... Who knows, your precious Spaniard might be next, if you aren't careful..."_

_"No..." There was no way he could know about Antonio. And Antonio was all right, had to be..._

_"He's not—" the man laughed. "He's not here! And if you stay here you will die!"_

_"No!" The word seemed torn from his lips. "You lying bastard—Antonio is all right! He's coming for me! Isn't that right, Antonio—Antonio!"_

_But to this too there was no answer._

_"Antonio!" he shouted, his voice rising and cracking. "Feliciano—Chiara! You're all just doing this to torment me, aren't you? Fucking come out! It's not funny anymore!"_

_"You have brought it upon yourself," said a sepulchral tone. Lovino quickly turned, with half a mind to attack the old man; but somehow he had vanished, and the Italian found himself in a spinning wall of darkness._

_"What—what the hell is this?" He tried groping his way through, but to no avail. A laugh echoed in the air around him._

_"If you are not careful, you will never see them again."_

_"No! No! It can't be..."_

_But the weight of the statement seemed to bear down upon Lovino; his legs buckled and at once he was falling, falling... The same high cackle reverberated, rising almost to a wail._

_"You will never—!"  
_

_"NO!" he cried, but it was too late and he could not, for the life of him, find his way out when he was still tumbling, the monstrous darkness closing upon him..._

* * *

"Lovino,  _Lovino!_  Wake up!"

Someone was shaking him, someone with a firm grip and a familiar tone. Lovino let out a gasp, and then his eyes flew open. Hovering over him was none other than the Spaniard, his green eyes wide with worry like a child's.

"Lovino... it's just a dream... it's all right."

For a second Lovino stared at him, uncomprehending, still caught in fear. And then he finally realized where he was. He pulled Antonio down and clutched onto him as tightly as he could.

"Lovino," he heard the Spaniard whisper, comfortingly, and felt arms going around his back to hold him. "Was it a really bad dream?"

"Fuck." Lovino let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. "It was horrible. I thought I lost you and my siblings and everyone else..."

"Don't worry,  _mi amor_. I'm still here. I'll always be here."

At least his lips on Lovino's were real enough, and they awakened him completely from the nightmare, as did the blinding sunlight from the open window. The Italian sighed and forced himself to breathe evenly.

"I must have been making a hell of a racket. I'm sorry... Shouldn't you be working?"

"Not today."

"Not today?" Lovino was about to ask more, but Antonio had suddenly started trailing kisses down his jaw and he forgot for a moment what he had planned to say. He could only flail weakly at the Spaniard. "F-fucking stop that—it's too  _early_  for this—"

"But Lovi..." Antonio breathed against his shoulder, his lips brushing Lovino's skin. "We didn't have time on the other days..." The Italian gasped as his fingers trailed lower.

"Antonio, wait, what if— _ah—_ "

There came a loud knock at the door and Lovino pushed him away so hard Antonio fell over the other side of the bed. Quickly Lovino pulled the blankets up to his chin, in case someone entered. No one did; but an awkward  _ahem_ passed through the closed door.

" _Alessandro?_ " he hissed, wondering exactly how much the man had heard.

"... Yes, sir, and I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come so early, I didn't mean to interrupt..." Already they could hear him turning and practically running down the stairs.

A moment of perfect silence; and then Lovino sprang up and threw on his clothes as fast as he could. He knew his face was burning, and seeing Antonio slowly getting up wasn't helping matters much.

"Hurry the fuck up!" he shouted to the wall instead. "He's probably got a message of some sort, and now we..." He swallowed uncomfortably. "I'll deal with...  _that_... later, okay?"

"As you wish," answered Antonio. Catching his barely hidden smile, the Italian punched his arm for good measure. There were still so many threats he had not carried out. But that was Antonio's fault, damn him.

They went downstairs, Lovino still unable to keep the color out of his face. Alessandro was waiting outside, carefully expressionless; he seemed quite willing to pretend he had heard nothing a few minutes ago. Something else in his eyes, however, unnerved Lovino and he could not help but ask.

"Did they write back? How was it at home?"

After a long moment of staring at the ground, Alessandro shook his head, gravely.

"They didn't..."

A sudden unwanted suspicion arose in Lovino's mind.

"What do you mean, _they didn't_? Are they all right?"

The younger Italian gulped and looked away. "I..."

" _Tell me!_  Are they—are they at home? Did they...  _leave?_ "

"... I think so, sir. The villa... it was empty. No one answered at the gates."

A beat. The words sank in.

"It can't be..." Lovino whispered, and then suddenly shouted. "You're lying! You're fucking lying, aren't you?" He grabbed Alessandro by the shoulders and shook him. "You're just making this up for us to worry—"

The other man freed himself with difficulty, his face pale. "I am not—I am telling you the truth! They're  _not there!_  One of the neighbors told me he was leaving too—because it arrived in Venice a week ago and people have been dying—"

" _What arrived?_ "

Lovino didn't think he could bear to hear the answer. But Alessandro spoke two words.

"The plague."

 _The plague_.

Lovino's heart plummeted and he had to brace himself against the wall. He could barely hear Antonio's hurriedly whispered words of reassurance. There was a roaring in his ears. He could not breathe, he could not think.

" _Alessandro_ ," the Spaniard was saying, urgently. "Don't say anything more. Can you get us a horse? Or someplace on a ship? Please. And _quickly_."

The young man nodded and vanished around the corner. Lovino did not notice him, did not pursue him. He could only stand there, frozen in Antonio's arms, with the same words ringing in his head over and over.

_Feliciano._

_Chiara._

_The plague._

And he had not been there—

He had not been there.


	18. The Art of Reparation

Perhaps they had not left sea at all. Because here he was again, on a ship that reminded him painfully of a smaller version of the  _Trinidad_. But Lovino was beyond welcoming or shunning the memories. He simply stood at the railing, clutching it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

A hand touched his shoulder; without turning he knew it was Antonio, and that he probably looked as concerned as he had been an hour ago.

"Lovino," said the Spaniard in a low, worried whisper. "Please talk to me."

His voice was too gentle, and Lovino felt his throat constrict. Wearily he faced Antonio again, but without meeting his eyes. That would have been too much.

"I'm talking right now," he managed.

Antonio looked as if he might touch Lovino's face—his hand certainly seemed to be moving in that direction. But there were men within sight at the crow's nest. He paused, and settled for patting Lovino's back instead.

"Lovi," he said softly. "Don't worry, all right? It's going to be okay. Remember how Alessandro said they left?" Lovino could only nod mutely. "So… they must have gone somewhere safe before things could get to them. They'll be fine, Lovi. Just fine."

"I suppose so." Lovino could hear his own voice, hanging flatly in the air, giving the illusion of calm. In the silence that followed he turned to the sea. Just a few hours ago it had been serene as the surface of a mirror; but now that they were on it, the water crashed and boiled as if some hidden monster lay beneath, struggling to escape. The ship's deck rocked, as if mocking their efforts to remain steady, thwarting their progress towards Venice.

And before he knew it Lovino had cried out and smashed his fist into the wood. Anger rose high in him, anger with himself, and he punched the side of the ship again, welcome pain exploding in his hand.

"Lovino, no,  _stop!_ "

Antonio seized him and hauled Lovino back before he could injure himself further. Somehow Lovino's fingers were throbbing; as if from a distance he saw the skin of his knuckles bruised dark, a cut across the center bleeding freely. But he did not care in the slightest. He tried to retract his hand from the Spaniard's.

"I'm fucking fine! Let  _go_  of me!"

But Antonio didn't listen. His grip tightened on Lovino's wrists, and he marched Lovino below decks to the ship's doctor. Sullenly the Italian watched the wound disappear under a pile of bandages; then he found himself back in the room he had been given, with Antonio still holding on to him.

"Let go," he said again, more flatly.

"So you can hurt yourself some more?" Antonio looked as if he too had sustained an injury. "I'm not going to let it happen, Lovino, and you know it."

His eyes flashed hard emerald—not the fire of anger, as no doubt shone in Lovino's—but something like frustration and worry combined. After a long moment he moved closer and put his arms around the Italian. This time Lovino did not resist.

"I'm sorry," he choked out.

Antonio's hand rested gently on his back, the other running through Lovino's hair. "You have nothing to be sorry about."

"But I do. I was unkind to you just now. And I was the same way to  _fratello_ and  _sorella_ , the only family I had. Now they might even be gone—" His voice cracked.

"No, Lovino, no—"

"I dreamed this would happen," Lovino whispered and felt Antonio freeze. "I saw the villa abandoned, and some man told me I couldn't see Feliciano and Chiara anymore. Or even you.  _And now it's happening._ " He could feel himself shaking. "Antonio," he mumbled almost incoherently, burying his face in the Spaniard's shoulder. God, he was so warm. "If I—if I just had another chance... I wouldn't have been like that."

Antonio only held him tighter. His lips brushed across Lovino's forehead.

" _Mi amor_ … all that matters is right now. You're Lovino Vargas, you have a good heart. And your dream was wrong, you know that?"

The Italian looked up to meet his glowing eyes. "R-really?"

"Yes. Because I'm right here with you. And I always will be."

And he said no more, but rocked Lovino gently, and for a while at least the Italian was comforted.

* * *

The city loomed up before them, quiet. It was no ordinary quiet now; even from a distance Antonio could sense it. No gondolas passed through the canals. The bridges were empty. The streets were deserted and filthy. Houses and buildings were shuttered; there was no one at the marketplace at this hour. An eerie aura hovered over all, and as they walked through it the Spaniard could feel it settle upon him like a dark substantial cloud.

He reached over to Lovino and pressed his hand comfortingly. The Italian squeezed back, but his face was pale.

"Here, I picked this up from one of the sailors," said Alessandro to his right, and Antonio found himself being handed a short length of cloth. "You may need to tear it apart to share with Signor Vargas over there—we're going to pass through the worst part of the city, so you need to cover your faces. Your ears, too, if you don't take kindly to unpleasant noises."

That was enough to silence them all. Lovino's face had gone whiter than the sheet Antonio gave him, but he was still calm enough to follow, and involuntarily he pressed closer to the Spaniard as they walked.

Alessandro had been right. As they turned the corner into a shadowed street Antonio didn't recognize, a horrible stench hit them like a wall. Antonio could smell it even through the cloth that covered his nose. He wanted to gag—he recognized it.

The smell of death.

And even worse than that, they could hear the voices and exclamations. People were dying all around them, behind the walls of the surrounding houses. They moaned and groaned, old and young alike, in terrible high notes, some wailing, others crying. Agony poured from all the shuttered windows, all the locked doors, filling the air around them. Never in all his years as a pirate had Antonio been afraid of death, but now his blood ran cold at the sounds, and at the sight that suddenly loomed before them.

At the entrance to a house whose doors were open, there stood a cart, the sort farmers used. But this one did not hold hay, or crops, or anything of the sort. It was piled high with human bodies, stiff in death. The limbs that dangled over the side were blackened as if they had been burned.

Alessandro stared pointedly away from the cart, but he had paled. Antonio found himself frozen, transfixed by the grotesque scene. And Lovino—

—He made a low suppressed noise in his throat, and suddenly he bolted, running back the way they had come as fast as he humanly could.

As if Lovino had jerked on some hidden cord binding them all, Alessandro and Antonio automatically followed suit. Antonio was the first to reach the Italian, catching him before he could hit the ground. Lovino had torn off the cloth, and his sobbing breath sounded beside Antonio's ear.

"I can't," he croaked. "I can't go back. Can't fucking… go back…  _no_ …"

"We're not going to," Antonio whispered into his hair, fighting down the urge to run to the canal and retch. Alessandro, it seemed, was doing just that.

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and came back on unsteady feet. "I… I wasn't expecting that either," he said shakily. "I didn't see it the first time. But… I think I know another way. Slower, though…" His eyes were tired blue, but Antonio could see truth in them. "We need to get back to the villa. At least we can stay there for a while—or both of you can."

Still he kept a respectful distance and waited as Lovino slowly collected himself. Only Antonio held on to his Italian, providing as much support as he could without actually speaking, which was beyond him at the moment. As for Lovino, the Spaniard couldn't blame him. No one could. To have lived in sheltered luxury all his life, and then to see something like this...

Finally Lovino straightened up; he had not regained his color, but at least he looked slightly more composed.

"Let's go, then," he said weakly, and gripped Antonio's hand hard enough for it to be painful.

A subdued Alessandro led them speedily through a different route. They passed more well-known buildings this time and fewer houses, and the streets were significantly quieter for it. The little sunlight left in the late afternoon glared balefully down upon them. But no one took notice of anything, save the path.

"We're almost there," Alessandro said after ten minutes, breaking the silence. "Just around the—" But Lovino had darted ahead with a strange sort of desperation, and Antonio followed on his heels.

The roof of the villa was already visible, and as he rounded the corner Antonio saw it. Outwardly it appeared little changed; but there was a certain melancholy air about it that spoke of abandonment. None of its curtained windows were open, and no light shone within. There were no guards milling around the great locked gates. And the shrubbery and trees on the grounds had already taken the week or so to begin growing wildly, wreathing the villa in disarray.

Antonio finally caught up to Lovino, who had stopped some distance away and stood stock-still, staring up at his old home.

"They—they really did leave," he said despairingly.

"Maybe there's still someone there who can tell us something," said Antonio, trying his hardest to sound hopeful. Woodenly Lovino nodded and followed him to the front of the gates. Antonio paused before them for a minute, then raised his hand and knocked as loudly as he could. The resulting clang sent echoes all the way into the courtyard.

"Is there anyone home?" he shouted, and turned to Lovino for help. It was his home, after all; but the Italian seemed lost for words. Behind them Alessandro had already caught up, and was standing to Lovino's right, looking around nervously.

"Hello? _Anyone?_ "

For what seemed like ages there was still no answer; Antonio's shout had all but vanished into the quiet of the villa. The house was just as still as it had been a few minutes prior, still as dea—

 _No._ Antonio stopped himself before he could finish the thought.

Just as he had begun to lose hope, there came the sound of a door slamming, somewhere, far beyond the gates, and beside him Lovino drew in a sharp breath. It could only have been someone within—and as they listened, footsteps, measured ones, made their way forward until they stopped just around the corner to the entrance. Whoever it was, he evidently did not wish to be seen. There was a short pause, and then—

"Who goes there?" called a young man's voice.

It was not Feliciano, or anyone Antonio recognized. But Lovino's face lit up suddenly and he threw himself against the gates, rattling them as hard as he could.

" _Fabio!_ "

"Signor Vargas?" the man responded incredulously, and then, "You came back!"

And he ran out into the open and unlocked the gates with all haste, welcoming them inside. Fabio was a small man, rather lanky, with a quiet sort of face but sharp eyes. They narrowed as they came to rest on Antonio, but then he noticed Alessandro.

"Oh, you came back."

"With a living letter this time," Alessandro said dryly, his gaze flicking towards Antonio. Fabio only raised an eyebrow in response, but it was clear he understood. It was a strange feeling, being scrutinized by a servant.

Fabio closed the gates securely, then led them through an archway into the courtyard of the villa. As expected, even that was empty; the small bushes and flowers planted by the walls were in the same sort of mess as the plants outside.

"Are you the only one here, Fabio?" Lovino demanded, looking around.

"Yes, sir. Signor and Signorina Vargas, your brother and sister, asked me to wait here for a week to see if you came back. If you hadn't arrived, I would have left by the end of today."

Lovino was staring at him, frozen in shock. It took him several seconds to recover himself. "So... they're all right, then?"

"Yes, sir. They went south, and were kind enough to take my mother and sister along. I'll be joining them soon."

"Did they—did they leave anything for me?" asked Lovino, almost ashamedly.

"As a matter of fact they did, sir. I will bring it to you. But please, do sit."

They had entered a well-furnished parlor, and Fabio bade them occupy three of the large comfortable chairs in the room. Antonio was tempted to move over to Lovino and hold him, but Fabio's eyes drilled him into his seat before he left.

He settled for holding Lovino's hand instead.

"That man," Alessandro remarked after the door had closed. "I remember him. He would always spare me a full journey, by taking Antonio's letters before I could get here. I couldn't even peer through the gates to get a better view."

"I told him specifically to do that," said Lovino, and the younger Italian seemed tempted to deliver a rejoinder, but restrained himself. It was at this moment that Fabio reentered, with a folded piece of paper in one hand.

"This was all  _Signore_  left for me—" he began, but Lovino had already leapt up and snatched the paper to read.

* * *

_Fratello,_

_I hope this is you reading this letter. If so, then my prayers and Chiara's have not been in vain, and Fabio too will have done his job. I hope you are safe._

_As you may have learned, we had to leave home. There was no choice—the plague was brought in somehow, and people were dying all around us. I would have stayed, but for Chiara—and there had to be one to accompany her safely to Palermo._

_We had to trust that you were somewhere far enough away to have escaped the disease. And it was hard for him, but we entrusted Fabio to look after the house to see if you came back. He is an honest and loyal man, as you well know, and he will also be rejoining us in Sicily. I am certain he will prove a useful guide, or companion, if nothing else.  
_

_That is, if you are coming to Sicily as well._

_I am running out of time; we must leave within the next hour or so, because that is when our ship will set sail. I hope you will consider coming back to find us, if only to relieve our worry. I hope that whoever you have found to give you strength and comfort is capable of doing so, and will do so for you endlessly._

_Until we meet again, fratello. You must take care._

_\- Feliciano_

* * *

Somehow the sea air seemed more breathable by the time they set sail. The sun had begun to set, setting the sky aflame in its light. Lovino could see his shadow stretch ever longer across the deck of the ship.

In his hand he still held the letter from his brother, that read like a letter from a stranger. It was as if Feliciano had given up hope on him, like a parent casting a horrible child out into the street. Reading his words had been akin to swallowing ice.

"Goddammit," he snarled at no one in particular.

"It's all right, Lovino. We'll be there soon."

His anger drained away as quickly as it had come, and he turned to Antonio with a sigh, letting the Spaniard envelop him.

"I don't care if he compliments me or not," said Antonio. "Just don't argue with him over me."

"I wasn't going to," Lovino answered tiredly, allowing himself a moment before he pulled out of Antonio's embrace. "It's just... he seems so far away. Cold. I don't know if he'll ever think of me as a brother again, and—"

"He'll come around. He'll understand. If not understand, at least he might learn to put aside the past. Everyone does."

"You think so?"

"Absolutely. That's what brothers do."

Antonio sounded as sure as Lovino had ever heard him, but he couldn't quite see the Spaniard's expression in the rapidly fading light. He decided not to dwell on it, and, taking advantage of the dimness, stole a quick kiss from Antonio.

But evidently Antonio had not wanted it to be quick. His lips brushed across Lovino's once, twice, more firmly and more fervently than Lovino had expected, and he found himself pushed against the ship's railing, with Antonio's mouth on his and hands on his waist. It was a lingering, longing kiss that made Lovino's heart pound erratically and his hands shake ever so slightly as he reached up to grip the Spaniard's shirt.

"Lovino," he whispered, breathless, and suddenly the Italian understood what his lips were trying to say.

_This is stupid of me, but I'm scared. I'm scared I might lose you again._

_You won't,_ responded Lovino, pulling him closer.  _  
_

_But what if—_

_He won't. He can't. Anything but this._

_Lovino..._

_Sì?_

_I love you._

_I love you too, Antonio._

* * *

The stars had come out again, brighter than Antonio had ever seen them. He would have liked to point out the constellations with Lovino, or have Lovino point them out to him, but the Italian had gone to bed an hour ago and his room was the most heavily guarded on the ship—thanks to Fabio. Antonio trying to enter would only have aroused suspicions of the worst kind.

He gazed out at the calm silvery-lit sea, his chest constricting as he remembered the kiss. It should not have caused him pain, but it did now, the same sort of pain he always felt when he thought of Feliciano and his cold voice, asking that he never see Lovino again, and his own promise.

Well, Antonio certainly had broken it now, broken it and flung the pieces to the wind beginning two weeks ago. There was no going back,  _he never wanted to go back_ , and yet—if this went on, who would Lovino lose instead?

"If you're looking for the North Star, you're searching in all the wrong places. It's over there."

Antonio turned and found the lanky servant, Fabio, standing by the mast and scrutinizing his face with sharp eyes.

"The North Star? I know where it is." The Spaniard paused. "Lovino showed me."

Fabio's eyes narrowed and he stepped closer. Though he was a full head shorter than Antonio, he still somehow managed to radiate intimidation. "Does every sentence from your mouth have to include Signor Vargas? I find it hard to believe that he's so attached to you still, when you hurt him so badly."

"True," said Antonio, "I did not deserve him. You know what I was before, don't you? I could never have measured up to him in that state." He took a breath. "But I  _am_  trying to make it otherwise. I left so I could start anew and come back to him an honest man."

"Very noble. But might I mention that you still do not 'measure up to him,' as you say?"

"I never said I do now. And Lovino can decide well enough; if he doesn't want me, he will tell me himself."

"Ah, and that's where the catch comes in—he  _does_ want you to stay. Well, here's a thought: if you're after his money, forget it. There isn't much of it anymore." _  
_

Antonio stared at him, a slow feeling of indignation rising in his chest.

"I'm not." He said it flatly; he still remembered a time when he would have thought differently, but that was when he hadn't known Lovino was Lovino—and it was already past now. He would never return to it again. "I don't need money to love him."

"It is certainly easy to say."

"I suppose Feliciano would say the same," he mused. "I wouldn't put it past him either."

"So what will it be, then?" Fabio was unrelenting. "Stay or leave? I would think it's better to hurt him sooner than later."

"I made a promise," said Antonio. "And I plan to keep it. I'll be there for him when he's happy, when he's sad, all the time. And if I must lay down my life for him to be safe, I would do it in a heartbeat. I would do _anything_. I swear by all that is good and holy in the world, and may lightning strike me dead if I have told a lie."

His words hung heavily in the air long after he had said them. Fabio was staring at him, a look almost of surprise in his dark eyes—or maybe he was still searching for some ulterior motive in Antonio's face. At last he seemed to give up, and turned to walk back the way he had come.

"You had best keep that promise then," he said over his shoulder. "That is, if you know what's good for you."

And he went below decks, leaving Antonio standing alone before the sea and the sky.

* * *

They were in for a cruel shock when the ship finally reached their destination. It was an otherwise beautiful day, another day of fleeting clouds and blinding sun in Palermo, but hundreds of people were crowded at the shore, shouting as the ship drew nearer for the captain to take them away. Some even jumped into the sea and began swimming towards them.

The ship's captain, a graying but authoritative man, regarded Lovino, Antonio, Alessandro and Fabio sternly.

"This is why I have not landed for the past few days," he said, ordering his sailors in the same breath to bring the ship no closer to shore. "They are all running from the plague—but not all the ships in the world could save them now."

"But you have space here, can't you take just a few of them?" asked Lovino.

"If I did, the rest of the world would want the same. You do not know how far the plague has spread. It is here, in Venice, all over Italy" —Lovino drew in a breath— "and the rest of Europe as well. I cannot risk catching disease aboard this ship, or it will be the end of us all."

There was nothing more the young Italian could say to that. But he did take out part of what money he had left and pushed the coins into the captain's hands, followed by Antonio, Fabio and Alessandro, who did not have much money at all.

" _Grazie, Capitano_ ," said Lovino, "for agreeing to take us this far. You have done us an invaluable service, and I wish you the best of journeys."

A small smile spread across the older man's face, and he immediately had a small boat prepared for them. While they were lowered into the water, he leaned over the side of the ship, and shouted:

"Goodbye and good luck!"

He remained there, waving, until he was too far away to be seen, and the ship began moving farther off into the distance. Lovino watched it go, then turned back to the others and found Fabio and Alessandro working away with the oars.

"Let me row," he said, but Fabio was the first one to refuse.

"No,  _signore_ , you must be tired and your—"

"It's been months and you're still going on about that wound,  _mio Dio_. I'm not a weak little girl!" Antonio accidentally let out a snort and Lovino glared at him across the two oarsmen. "Fuck you, it's not funny!"

Antonio looked like he wanted to elaborate on Lovino's swearing, but Fabio's presence effectively prevented it.

"It is my duty,  _signore_ ," said the servant, and Lovino frowned.

"It is not your duty. You have no duty to anyone anymore except yourself." He watched Fabio's eyes widen as the realization hit him, and allowed himself his first grin in ages. "Fabio, you're released from servitude. You need your freedom after working for us for so long."

The man gaped at him for several minutes before closing his mouth. "That is—that is very kind,  _signore_ , and I thank you."

"You don't  _have_  to call me that anymore. We're all equal now."

"Yes, but—it may take me some time."

Lovino waved it off, but was quickly interrupted by an excited Alessandro.

"Does that mean I don't have to either?"

"No. And you just left it out again! No pay for a week."

"I take back what I said, about you being an angel compared to my former employer," said Alessandro, feigning hurt. "You are devilish."

"I know."

The brief cheerfulness dissipated rapidly as they reached the shore, and were promptly swarmed by people. Lovino was almost smothered by a large man who had tried to climb into the boat, but the intruder was quickly knocked aside and Antonio had pulled Lovino up onto solid land. Behind them three people had already claimed the boat and were rowing away, but it couldn't be helped. The four men made their way towards the city, Lovino feeling more apprehensive by the minute.

"Did they tell you where they'd be staying?" he asked Fabio.

"Not exactly, but  _signorina_ said she was planning to find her husband-to-be. He probably lives close by—"

"I remember where he is," Lovino announced, and walked ahead. "Just around this street, and somewhere over there..."

Thankfully, the street he led them through was considerably quieter, but the silence grew disturbing after a while. Finally they arrived at a relatively fancy villa—incomparable to Lovino's, but decent enough, the color of sandstone. Like the Vargas residence, there was no one guarding the grounds here, and the whole house seemed to be holding its breath. Resolutely Lovino went up to the front and banged on the gates.

"Feliciano? Chiara? Are you there?"

It was as if he had broken a spell—a commotion started up somewhere in the house, and suddenly the curtains in a second-floor window were swept aside, the window itself wrenched open, and there stood his _sorella._  Upon seeing him she screamed.

" _Lovino!_ _You came back!_ "

Lovino had frozen in pure shock upon seeing her, but her voice moved him. " _Sì, Chiara, I'm back!_ " he shouted. "Open up already!"

Chiara disappeared from the window and he could practically hear her running downstairs, calling for someone. Then she came racing through the doorway, dressed in a flowing rose-colored gown, and unlocked the gates herself before falling into Lovino's arms.

" _Fratello_ ," she said, near-sobbing into his shoulder. "I'm so glad you're here... we were all so scared..."

Lovino held her tight, a strange feeling pricking behind his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I shouldn't have gone for so long. It was my fault."

"But you're here, and that's what matters."

Feliciano's voice.

Slowly Lovino let go of Chiara, who moved aside to allow him to walk forward. His  _fratello_ 's face was blank, and he did not move from where he stood.

"I thought you were gone," he said softly. "You don't know—"

But Lovino had already leapt forward and caught him around the shoulders. Feliciano stiffened for a moment, but that was all it took, and at last he relented.

"I'm sorry, Feli," whispered Lovino, and meant it. "I'm sorry for all the things I said and didn't say to you. I was wrong to treat you and Chiara in that way." He pulled back to look Feliciano in the eyes. " _Fratello_..." he said quietly, his voice pleading. "Will you ever forgive me?" _  
_

For a minute Feliciano did not respond, an unreadable expression in his brown eyes. Then he spoke.

"Why do you ask 'will you ever'?" he said finally, and Lovino's heart plummeted. "You make it sound as if I'll never forgive you."

Lovino's heart leapt again. "Does that mean—"

" _Sì_ , Lovi, I forgive you. But really, what is there to forgive? I stopped being angry a long time ago, and I've been doing my best to understand." He looked at Fabio. "I can't thank you enough for everything you've done for us. And you—" He turned to Antonio. "You had better take good care of him, or else."

"I will," said Antonio, but Lovino had drowned him out with a loud exclamation of joy, grabbing his brother in a crushing hug.


	19. Per Sognare Ancora

It was as if someone had opened a box and released new life and hope into the world. Now everything seemed possible before his eyes. The clouds that had once loomed threateningly over the horizon had vanished, the sun shone more brilliant than ever, even the very ground beneath his feet had begun to bloom with green.

He walked without fear now in the city streets. All around him still was the carnage of the sick and dying, but if nothing else he had money, and money could buy the few comforts one could ask for in order to recover. People he had never seen before thanked him, men and women and little lanky children, and his heart went out to them as he passed. They called him their "Savior," even though he always wished he could have done more for them.

The sea, whenever he paused to observe it on a quiet night, was always calm now, and sometimes he thought he could see a glimmering star hovering in the farthest stretch of dim sky, a star he knew well.

And for the first time in his life, seeing and doing all these things, Antonio was happiness personified.

What more could he want, really? He had with him the love of his life, his family of good and just people who had against all odds accepted him, and two other fairly pleasant comrades, Fabio and Alessandro—although the former had left them to reunite with his family. But it gave Antonio comfort to know that he was not as alone in the world as he had been. He did find himself wishing Lovino's sister could get married sooner, because the constant suppressed anticipation in Lovino's eyes was starting to worry him. And that they could have a little more time alone together... just a little more. And that epidemics would stop rattling at the city gates every so often.

But he was happy, for the first time in his life.

And also for the first time in his life, a singular notion came to him—the notion that all the good things that had happened might stay this way after all.

If that was madness, he thought, he wouldn't mind being a madman forever.

He'd be the luckiest madman the world had ever seen.

* * *

There still were, of course, many preparations to be made for Chiara's long-awaited marriage. Most important on this list was an inspection of the bridegroom-to-be for the hundredth time, because Lovino could not, would not allow just any man to marry his sister; he had to be  _special_. And to Lovino that meant he had to be twenty-five, good-natured, affectionate, honorable, handsome, equal parts Italian and Spanish (a fact that could earn Antonio's immediate friendship), wealthy, and named Stefano. Fortunately the man in question fit the description down to the last letter. And he had been generous enough to send an escort with Fabio for safety, and to welcome everyone else as honored guests.

Theirs was truly a match made in heaven, Lovino thought to himself, patrolling— _observing_ —from the second-floor window as Chiara and her beloved took a walk together in the verdant garden, their heads together as if they were discussing something important. There was no other way to describe it: they were two halves of a whole, stronger and happier together than they ever could be apart. From their mutual love they seemed to draw a strange yet thrilling power.

Just like—dare he admit it?—him and Antonio.

Yes, the Spaniard was with him at the moment. Yes, he was also watching, his green eyes indescribably soft—not that Lovino had gone out of his way to notice. Yes, he had both arms around Lovino's waist from behind, and yes, he must have been thoroughly comfortable because he hadn't moved at all in the past fifty seconds.

"Did you fall asleep?" Lovino grumbled halfheartedly, turning to check on him. Immediately he wished he hadn't, because Antonio just so happened to be facing him, and turning made it so that they were very,  _very_ close together, close enough for their noses to touch. And Antonio was, in fact, awake. He was smiling—a small adoring smile, with a hint of something that Lovino couldn't quite place.

"No, I wasn't sleeping… just looking at you."

Lovino bit his lip, willing the blush to subside, and turned back to the window.

"You're distracting me—look, they're already gone."

But he wasn't as worried as he might have been. He let his hands wander to where the Spaniard's were, and let them stay there. Antonio's lips simultaneously brushed his cheek.

"Your powers of attention are so short-lived, Lovi," he whispered, with the most innocent look on his face, a look that made Lovino's breath grow short.

"N-no thanks to you!" the Italian blustered. Antonio only grinned widely.

"If it makes you feel better, mine are too… Except when it comes to you."

"Oh, don't you even—"

Almost before he knew it they were kissing again. Antonio had bent down, and he had automatically leaned up, just a little, enough for their lips to meet. There was none of the heated passion and desperation they had tasted so often recently; this was just a kiss, an ordinary one, and they were kissing just because they could, and because it felt like the right thing to do. He had lost count of how many times it had happened that day.

He could feel how Antonio's breath ghosted across his lips, warm and gentle, and how his hands had found Lovino's shoulders, turning the Italian to face him fully. It had been a long time since Lovino had known any sort of security, but he knew it now, in Antonio's arms, wrapped in his affection and love. It was still hard to believe this was the same man Lovino had first met aboard the  _Trinidad_ ; but they had both been strangers then, strangers to themselves and each other, and they had found the way at last. They had found each other, they belonged to each other, they  _were_ each other.

Their hands had somehow interlocked, and stayed that way even after their mouths had separated. It was a perfect moment, simply standing there and gazing into those mesmerizing green eyes and barely fighting the smile that threatened to engulf his face. Antonio looked like he could be content to stay like that forever—but then his eyes regained that unidentifiable emotion that caught Lovino's attention. If Lovino hadn't known better he could have sworn it was something like anticipation, or nervousness, or both. But why would he—

"Lovino, I… need to ask you something."

His voice, still sounding short of breath, was unusually soft, and his eyes were intense and earnest enough to set Lovino's heart to racing, for reasons he did not know himself. It was suddenly much harder to keep his voice steady.

"What is it?" he said with some difficulty.

Antonio grasped his hands tighter, swallowing visibly. He drifted even closer and took a deep breath, as if collecting his wits.

"Lovino… I've wanted to say this to you for a long time…" He stopped again, hesitant, and it was clear that what he wanted to say would be very weighty indeed. Lovino stared at him, his mouth dry.

"Go on."

"Well, it's just… I was wondering—more like hoping, really…" Antonio's face was more nervously animated than the Italian had ever seen it. He shut his eyes briefly and then opened them again. "Lovino, would you—"

" _Fratello_!"

Immediately they jumped apart, Lovino's heart sinking as Feliciano burst through the doorway. He had regained his carefree (or not so carefree) knack for interrupting important conversations, it seemed; and he even wore an ear-splitting grin to prove it.

"Oh, you  _are_  here!" he exclaimed, glancing from unnerved Spaniard to equally unnerved Italian, and pausing for a minute before addressing Antonio. "Sorry to barge in, but I need to show  _fratello_ something."

So he  _had_ done it on purpose after all. Who would've known Feliciano could be crafty too.

"What is it?" asked Lovino yet again, with considerable reluctance this time.

"You'll see—!" Feliciano grabbed his arm and started to pull him insistently towards the door. "They're in my room. I almost forgot to give them back to you, and I don't want to forget again."

Lovino took in his brother's overenthusiastic face—something he had sorely missed—then looked over to where Antonio stood by the door, expression shadowed with whatever he had meant to say before Feliciano's surprise arrival. He looked very much like he wanted to talk to Lovino, now,  _alone._

"I'm coming, just give me a minute," Lovino said quickly, earning a significant look from Feliciano, who observed the two of them one last time.

"Hurry up then,  _fratello_! I'll just wait outside for you!"

The door closed behind him and for a moment Lovino was left alone with the Spaniard. There was still such conflict in his eyes, and Lovino couldn't help himself; on impulse he reached up and touched Antonio's cheek.

"You can tell me later, all right?" he whispered.

Antonio didn't break his gaze, and didn't move either. "All right."

But he looked far from reassured as Lovino left, wondering what in the world could have caused him to be this way, and slightly afraid of the possible answers.

* * *

As it turned out, Feliciano had only wanted to show him the contents of several cloth bundles.

"Here," he said, pushing one into Lovino's arms and lifting out two more from a wooden chest with the utmost gentleness. "And here, and here!"

"No more," Lovino shouted. "I'm going to collapse and lose my arms!"

"I thought you were going to put them down first!"

Thankfully there were only five. Lovino sighed loudly, shook his head and emptied the contents of his bundle onto a nearby table. Out tumbled several books, a tied sheaf of papers that he recognized as Antonio's letters, several documents with official stamps, and a small varnished box lined with gold, which nearly slid off onto the floor. Lovino caught it first, and opened it, but all the angry things he had planned to say had vanished into thin air.

Inside were two silver rings.

"These—"

"Yeah," said Feliciano, looking a little embarrassed. "I didn't  _want_ to search your things, you know, but I wasn't sure we'd be able to go back. So I took all the important things with me. You didn't bring the rings when you left."

Lovino was silent, turning them over in his hand and feeling their well-loved carvings with his finger.

He remembered these—one was a signet ring bearing the Vargas family crest, passed down through generations, which Nonno had bequeathed to Lovino when he had come of age, his birthright as the oldest. The second ring was simpler in design—a silver band inscribed with the Latin for  _good will and good faith_ , the same as the ones Feliciano and Chiara wore. These were what made him Lovino Vargas. Automatically he slipped them onto his fingers, their presence a familiar weight, the weight of realization and responsibility.

"I missed these," he said almost absently. Feliciano smiled.

"Well, don't forget them next time."

Lovino turned to stare at him. "'Next time'—did you think I was leaving? I'm not going to anymore, I already told you."

"No, it's not that." His brother's face was so completely free of harsh feelings that Lovino believed him. "As long as you're happy and safe, it's all right. I just wanted you to have these back so you won't forget."

Lovino knew what he'd left unsaid.  _So you won't forget who you are._

He glanced down at the two rings again, two unassuming circles of silver with the weight of his identity stamped on them. And suddenly they didn't seem so heavy anymore.

"I won't," he murmured, turning to Feliciano, and did something he hadn't done in a long time: he reached out and ruffled his brother's hair. Feliciano's smile grew impossibly wider.

"Lovi, come closer," he said softly. Lovino did so and Feliciano threw his arms around him; the older Italian laughed, a gentle loving laugh, and soon enough they were both laughing the way long-lost brothers would—freely, still in each other's arms as if they could stay that way forever.

* * *

Antonio did not see the Italian again until supper. There had been no opportunity to talk to him privately, and after spending more time mulling over it, Antonio wasn't sure that would be the best idea. It was true that what he had to ask Lovino was important,  _very_ important, at least where the two of them were concerned—but he had no way of knowing how Lovino would react, whether he would even accept. The Italian had been nervous the first time he'd tried, and now, beside him at the table, he looked just as uneasy as Antonio felt.

And, Antonio thought, he had forgotten he still did not have a ri—

"Uh, everyone—we have an announcement to make."

Chiara Vargas' hesitant tone of voice broke through his thoughts and he glanced over to the head of the table, catching sight of her worried face. That was odd—she had been all smiles and cheerfulness ever since Lovino had returned. Stefano next to her was doing his best to radiate reassurance, but it didn't seem to be working.

"What is it?" Feliciano asked, across from him. He was sitting with a large blond man Antonio had never seen before, and judging by Lovino's skeptical look, he hadn't either. "Is something wrong?"

"No…" Chiara arranged and then rearranged the silverware nervously with slender fingers, her brown eyes briefly downcast. "I just wanted to say that… Stefano and I were thinking of going to Spain. After we get married."

There was a short silence. Antonio could feel the tension radiating off Lovino in waves, but didn't know what to say.

"So you've decided not to stay here, then?" Feliciano ventured quietly.

"Yes, well—because—it's not safe here anymore. Besides, Stefano has connections in Spain—good ones—and I thought that if we all went there together, it would be better." Her voice trailed off on a slight hopeful note, as though asking their approval. Lovino was the first to answer, his face carefully expressionless.

"It sounds like a good plan," he said. "I don't think they speak Italian over there, though."

"But you won't have to go out into the open that much!" Stefano interjected with great excitement, in a way that reminded Antonio of himself. "And if you do you'll always have me to translate!"

"And me too," Antonio added, stopping them mid-discussion and suddenly becoming the object of surprised stares. For some reason he felt rather embarrassed. "Why are you all looking at me like that? I  _am_ Spanish, you know—"

Lovino grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his chair before he could go on.

"Do you mean you're  _going_?" he whispered, his face betraying his concern. "Back to  _Spain_?"

Antonio did his best to sound nonchalant. "Why not?"

"I just didn't know if it would be safe. After all that business with… you know."

He knew what Lovino was trying to say—returning to Spain as the wanted captain of a fearsome pirate crew was not and would never be a wise move. But he was not Captain Antonio any more, only Antonio. Antonio in the company of some of the most respected people in Italy. Things had changed entirely, and there was no one living to know the difference, except Lovino and his brother.

"It'll be fine, I won't be the only Antonio there," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. Then, impulsively, "But I'll only go if you go, Lovi."

"Well,  _I'm_ going wherever  _you_ go, so that shouldn't be a problem."

Antonio's heart thrilled at the resolve in the Italian's face, and he couldn't help the hopefulness.

"Really?"

"Of course!" Lovino stopped and peered closely at him, eyebrows furrowed. "What were you even thinking?"

"Nothing," said Antonio, squeezing his hand, suddenly unable to stop smiling. "Nothing—I'm just happy."

"You worry so damn much, Antonio."

But Antonio's heart had lightened again, and as he gazed around at the excited faces of the others at the table, all he could think was that nothing could go wrong, as long as they had each other. And for once he believed it wholeheartedly.

* * *

Things would have been perfect for Lovino if he hadn't caught sight of something he  _really wished he hadn't seen._

It had happened as follows: after supper he'd tried to go after Antonio and speak to him again, but had promptly been thwarted by Chiara and Stefano. They had wanted to enlist his help in the wedding—without a father present, Lovino would lead his  _sorella_ to the altar instead. Which was all very well and good (Lovino was actually proud as hell) but his mind was still mostly on Antonio. He'd excused himself as quickly as possible and hurried upstairs to where Antonio was probably waiting in his room.

But halfway there he was stopped again—this time by Feliciano's voice, mingled with someone else's, just around the corner in the hall. He backed up against the wall, feeling thankful for the shadows, and listened.

"What do you mean?" Feliciano was saying, his voice low and soft as though speaking to a lover. Lovino nearly jumped when a man's voice answered—one he didn't recognize, with a decidedly foreign accent.

"I told my family I would be back soon; they still need money for everything, and I promised to return with it. I wasn't counting on meeting you, but…" There was a sigh. "I'm not leaving. I only need to go back and tell them, maybe bring them with me. My mother, brother and sister. It shouldn't be long."

"But I won't know where you are," Feliciano whispered. "We'll be in Spain then."

"I'll come with you as far as Spain, and then go," said the man. "Then I'll know how to find you again."

"I'll miss you, you know."

"I'm sorry, Feliciano. I will too…"

Lovino couldn't hear the rest; it was obscured by a muffled, highly suspicious sound.

There was no time to lose. He darted around the corner, just in time to find Feliciano in the arms of that very same blond stranger who had been at the table earlier. They appeared to be fused at the mouth, with muted passionate noises coming from Feliciano.

An alarm was necessary. Lovino sounded it.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH MY BROTHER?"

Feliciano emitted a high-pitched screech, and the blond man, caught red-handed, let go of him like he was on fire. Lovino strode over to them, intending to punch the stranger in the face, but found himself restrained by his brother.

" _Fratello_ , no! Don't hurt him!"

"Who is this?" Lovino demanded, watching their still-red faces. So  _this_ was who Feliciano had been dropping hints about all along—somehow he had never expected it to be a man. He was not one bit worthy of Lovino's approval: tall and too muscular, with shockingly blond hair and blue eyes and a very German appearance. He was also awkward-looking, which might have earned him the benefit of the doubt in any other situation—but not this one, and Lovino had never been a lenient judge.

"Talk, damn it!"

The man cleared his throat. "My name is Ludwig Beilschmidt. And you must be… Lovino Vargas?"

"That's  _Signor_ Lovino Vargas to you," Lovino snapped, still sizing him up. No, he was too large to take in a fight; he would have to ask Antonio for help. "Who the fuck gave you permission to lay hands on Feli?"

"I did," said Feliciano with a touch of insolence, and Lovino whipped around to glare at him.

"But you didn't tell me it was  _this bastard_ —he looks like he can level a building!"

To his surprise Feliciano blushed, the way Chiara would whenever she was teased. "He's one of Stefano's business friends, and he came all the way from Germany to make sure things were all right. He's a good man!"

Ludwig was standing beside them looking more embarrassed by the second, his face also turning successively darker shades of red. This irritated Lovino even further.

"You may not touch Feli unless I say so. And that's because you weren't good enough to even  _introduce_ yourself beforehand, Ludwig… whoever you are. And if you don't do as I say, you'll fucking regret it!"

He could hear Feliciano gasp from behind him.

"Lovi,  _no_!"

"I won't," said Ludwig, which surprised them both. Lovino narrowed his eyes.

"You'd  _better_  not."

"I was too forward." The German looked apologetically at Feliciano, who said nothing. "I should have at least attempted formal courtship, and made it known to someone besides the two of us." He turned to Lovino and seemed to steel himself. "I would have asked your father, but I have learned he is no longer present. So, Signor Vargas, will you allow me the honor of seeking young Feliciano's hand, with a fair chance to anyone else who may be involved?"

" _Dio_ , Luddy, I'm not a girl!"

The tall man gave a half-smile. "If I must follow local customs, then I will."

Speechless, Lovino gaped at the two of them. He was only faintly aware that Feliciano was plucking at his arm, blushing like a bride-to-be.

" _Fratello_ , just please—"

Lovino finally closed his mouth, only to open it again. "No."

" _Lovi_ —"

"I said  _no_!" growled the older Italian, glaring. "There's no fucking way I'm going to let him do that! He's acting as if you don't have a say in the matter, and that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. 'Following local customs,' my ass. No—you might as well get back to what you were doing before! And I mean it!"

It was now Feliciano's turn to gape at him, followed by Ludwig. Their faces were at once comically alike, but it was Ludwig, the towering man with his mouth open like a small child's, who finally got the better of Lovino.

He laughed so hard he could swear the walls shook along with him. How did they not know at all what he meant?

* * *

There was no finding of Antonios to be made that night. It simply wasn't necessary. Antonio had thought it best to sleep in Lovino's room until the Italian returned.

That was how Lovino found him—sprawled across the covers, one hand trailing on the floor. He looked like he had flung himself onto the bed in a fit of boredom. But once the door opened his eyes also opened, and now he was grinning at Lovino with the most mischievous look anyone could ever wear on a summer night.

"You finally came back! I could hear you yelling up and down the halls the whole time."

"And you didn't even help me," huffed Lovino, lying down beside him. He was promptly snatched up in a warm tight hug, and found his face pressed against Antonio's chest. Pushing him away wasn't going to help, so he didn't even try. "What the heck are you doing!?"

"Nothing much." He could even  _hear_ the smile in Antonio's voice. "It's been a while since I've held you like this."

Lovino was suddenly grateful his face wasn't visible, but he felt his cheeks were liable to burn a hole through Antonio's shirt.

"It hasn't even been that long," he muttered.

"But it feels like it has." Antonio was silent for a minute, stroking Lovino's hair with gentle fingers. "You know, Lovino… about earlier... I really just wanted to give you something, but..."

" _Sì_ —what about it?"

Quickly Lovino detached himself enough to meet Antonio's eyes. He could feel his heart pounding, and it only sped up when the Spaniard spoke.

"I'm going to save it for later," he whispered, his breath ruffling Lovino's hair just slightly. "For when we leave here. It'll be a surprise—just for you."

"And how do I know you won't put it off then and tell me it's saved for another time?"

"How would you  _not_  know?" Antonio's hand had found its way down to the hem of Lovino's shirt, and now it was traveling up his back, causing the Italian to tremble. "I admit, I don't enjoy waiting, either… but I do like to think I keep my word…"

"Well, do  _you_  want to hear something?"

"What is it, my beloved tomato?"

Lovino gave him a look.

"You're ridiculous." And he pulled Antonio into a forceful kiss that silenced him, fortunately, for quite a while.

* * *

Time definitely had flown by on silver wings.

Lovino stood near the entrance to the chapel, waiting for Chiara to arrive. From where he was he still had a fairly clear view of the interior—walls covered with paintings in sober hues, which were every now and then lined with gold. Grand white pillars, starting from this side of the building to the altar, supported the high domed roof. Lovino had only glanced at it when he'd come in, but he knew it, too, was glossed over with the paintings of ages. A circular stained-glass window towered directly above him, and sunlight shone through it and on him in a waterfall of color.

Everyone else was already there: Antonio, Alessandro, Ludwig and Feliciano near him, along with a few other guests; Stefano was at the altar, standing solemnly with the priest. Still, Lovino could practically sense the nervous excitement radiating from him. It was infectious, and even as he thought it he could feel himself sharing the emotion.

At last, having left the chapel to walk back towards the villa, he caught sight of Chiara, hurrying towards him, accompanied by three maids. He had never understood why women needed so much time to beautify themselves, until now. His  _sorella_ was more than beautiful today—with a light, flowing dress that gave her the look of an angel, her brown hair falling loose around her shoulders, only held in place at the top with a golden band. A thin veil covered her face, but Lovino could still see the roses in her cheeks, which were not from rouge.

"They're all waiting for you," he said, near to bursting with pride. Chiara gave him a little smile and took his arm, evidently too excited to say much.

No procession accompanied them, but that was how Chiara had wished it, as quick as possible so they could depart afterward without unwanted attention. And yet it did not feel as if they were in a hurry—time seemed to have slowed down just for this.

Together they entered the chapel; everyone fell quiet as they passed. There was a moment in which Lovino felt like he was walking on air—never had he been such an important part in bringing two people together. It was as if he were living in a happy dream.

Slowly they neared the altar, where Stefano stood, breathless with anticipation; he met Lovino's eyes and they exchanged a wordless but mutual smile. The priest beside them spoke, his voice gentle yet somehow echoing through the chapel.

"To all who have gathered here today... This marriage, like every other, is in itself a blessing. But doubly blessed is the couple who comes to the marriage altar with the approval and love of their families and friends. Who has the honor of presenting this woman to be married to this man?"

"I do," said Lovino. "On behalf of her family and friends, I do." He took Chiara's hand in one of his and Stefano's with the other, and his heart lifted at the sight of their bright faces. "On behalf of those who are with us, and those who have gone before... I give my blessing to this union." With a rare smile for them both, he joined their hands.

The priest looked on with appropriate seriousness, although even Lovino could see that he was pleased. "May the blessing of your marriage extend throughout your families forever," he intoned.

Lovino stood by to watch as they exchanged their vows and gold rings, a strange feeling in his chest as he did so. Unconsciously he found Antonio's eyes from across the room. The Spaniard was gazing at him as if Lovino were the only other person present, with a look of such tenderness that it made the Italian's heart flutter.

"Antonio," he almost whispered, but he was still some distance away.

The priest had just pronounced Chiara and Stefano newlyweds, and a burst of joyful exclamations enveloped the chapel, especially when the groom lifted his new bride in his arms and spun her around in glee. Lovino, after congratulating them, took advantage of the noise to slip across to Antonio.

"We should go," he said to the Spaniard. Antonio glanced around once, then gave a nod, and unnoticed in the revelry they left together.

* * *

He knew what they had to do—secure a ship so they could leave in the next day or two, with the aid of Lovino's authority and money to accompany it. The celebration would only go on for so long, and then they would have to run—escape this city for a better one to spend the rest of their lives in. Perhaps Madrid, that was large enough to render them relatively obscure. Or Barcelona, with its many ships and sea air.

But that was the farthest thing from Antonio's mind as he walked steadily back the way he had come, towards the villa, acutely aware of the restless Italian beside him.

He had never seen Lovino so excited, so perfectly happy, until that moment when he had led his sister to Stefano. And now, on closer inspection, his face looked rather flushed and feverish. Antonio reached out to touch his forehead and the Italian trembled.

"Are you all right, Lovi? You don't look very well—"

Lovino moved away and grabbed his hand, keeping it away from his face. "I'm all right—let's just hurry."

There was no footman at the gates, but Stefano had told them he'd dismissed him. They let themselves in and Lovino scanned the place quickly, then made a beeline for the gardens. Antonio followed him, now thoroughly perplexed.

"Lovi, what are you doing? We need to—"

Lovino grabbed his face and kissed him soundly, stopping him, and all Antonio could do was lean in closer and return it. The Italian's hands had moved up to his shoulders, then his neck, pulling him down so he couldn't move away.

"Tell me," he whispered, warm against Antonio's lips. The Spaniard froze.

"W-what do you..."

" _Tell me,_ " Lovino said fervently, letting go just enough to gaze at him. His eyes were insistent and strangely knowing. "I've decided I'm not going to wait any longer. Tell me what you wanted to tell me before."

"I..."

" _Antonio_."

"I don't have a ring," said the Spaniard very quietly. But Lovino had heard, his eyes widened the slightest bit, and he took a step back.

"A  _ring_? Do you mean—"

He had done it now, he thought. There was no going back, only forward.

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

To his surprise Lovino did not appear terribly shocked, or horrified, or repulsed. He only looked at Antonio, quickly and searchingly, and then dropped his eyes.

"The ring doesn't matter," he said.

"But I wanted to—"

"—ask? Go ahead."

Hope stole into Antonio's heart once more.

"Even if it's only between the two of us?"

" _Because_ it's between the two of us, and only us. Ask me, since you wanted to. I will answer."

Antonio slowly went down on one knee.

* * *

This was the moment, the moment he had never expected to happen, not even in his wildest dreams. Now that it had arrived he felt strangely calm, though he could still barely comprehend the sight before him—Antonio kneeling, with not a ring but Lovino's hand in his own, eyes radiating such sincerity and hope and love.

"Lovino," he said, his voice quiet and earnest, thrilling through every fiber of Lovino's being. "I don't even know how to begin with you. You... well, you're the best man I've ever met. From the moment I saw you I knew you were different, unique, and you  _are_... I don't know where I'd be if you had never entered my life."

His eyes never left Lovino's, and Lovino did not look away.

"You changed me, you know that, Lovino? Maybe you don't believe me—but you did. You taught me how precious life is. You taught me how to find myself. You taught me how to love."

Lovino felt his heart begin to beat strongly. Antonio did not falter.

"I love you, Lovino. I love you so much. And even though I'm far from wealthy, or educated, or powerful, or anything like that—"

"It doesn't matter," whispered the Italian. "It never will."

Antonio gazed at him like a drowning man would gaze upon an unexpected rescuer. "I just wanted to say, Lovino—you make me happy. You make me the happiest man in the world, simply by being here with me, and I—I just want to ask you..."

Suddenly the Italian couldn't speak.

"Lovino Vargas, will you marry me?"

His throat had closed up and all he could do was gaze at the Spaniard before him with his mouth agape, unable to answer.

"Lovino...?"

"Get up, you look uncomfortable," he blurted out, and Antonio stared at him in surprise before choking back a laugh.

"... Is that a yes or a no?" he whispered, not moving from his place. And a smile spread across Lovino's face, brighter than the sun shining down upon them.

He took off a familiar silver ring and slipped it onto the Spaniard's finger.

" _Yes_ , Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, you crazy wonderful man.  _Yes_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand... this is technically the end, with an epilogue coming up soon! :D A great big thank you to everyone who's supported this story - you guys rock and I love you all!
> 
> (Chapter title from Per Sognare Ancora by Neffa. Love that song <3)


	20. Epilogue

* * *

_Three Months Later_

* * *

Almost everyone was at peace in the city of Madrid. For one, there was much less to worry about at sea, ever since two of its most feared men had vanished. According to local records the English pirate Arthur Kirkland and Spaniard Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had perished off the Italian coast, their men having fought each other viciously before being ambushed by a small Italian fleet.

Most in Europe were happy to believe this, and indeed the Atlantic was remarkably undisturbed afterwards, but some had their doubts. It was the firm belief of the wiser men that the two pirate captains had managed to escape and were still at large, building up new crews and preparing to return. The fact that neither of their bodies had ever been found seemed to support this point, although of course no one ever discovered the truth.

And in Spain new things were happening.

In Madrid, in the year 16—, a Spaniard rose from obscurity to introduce a delectable new tomato variety, which he sold at good prices to inns and restaurants, but mostly commoners. For this he became well-known and loved by many of the populace. His official name was never determined, but he did not mind being called Angelo.

No one in the city knew much about him—nothing about his past ever made its way into the public eye. He was still young, possessed good strength and a handsome face, and was by all appearances unmarried. This attracted several families' attention, but he never accepted their proposals. His only known interest seemed to be serving the poor around him, for which he was often seen paying visits to the needy and giving alms.

In short, the public could find no fault with Angelo, and he soon became a respected, if not revered, member of their society. Everyone who knew of him dubbed him a good man.

* * *

_Three Years Later_

* * *

If anyone had taken to loitering near a certain sturdy, shaded stall in the city marketplace, he would have noticed, most afternoons, a man hurrying away from the back. He was fairly tall, wore a hat pulled low over his face despite the July heat, and on closer inspection had the familiar build of Angelo the benefactor.

No one followed him, but if they had they would have seen him head towards the wealthiest quarter of the city, looking somewhat out of place in his coarse cotton garb. He stopped at the farthest house, a high pillared white one, and knocked at the polished double doors as if he knew them personally. He had only to wait a minute before the doors were flung open and he was pulled inside.

It was a good thing that no one was nearby, because the Italian holding onto his arm must not have been calling his name.

"Antonio," he said, before closing the doors behind them.

* * *

Of course this was Antonio, Antonio who had disappeared in name off the face of the earth for three years. He had been living a double life ever since then—Angelo when out of doors, Antonio in this house. And even though it gave him satisfaction to help the poor, it was always being Antonio that made him happiest.

Lovino, too, seemed to think the same way.

"What took you so damn long?" he demanded, sweeping off Antonio's hat with one hand and with the other rubbing the Spaniard's cheek disapprovingly. "Just look at you—all burned from the sun. You won't look like my Antonio anymore if you keep staying out there like that—"

"But at least you'll still be my Lovino!" Antonio stopped his tirade with a kiss. "And my Lovino always knows when it's me." He grinned, sneaking one arm around Lovino's waist, before suddenly yanking him close and leaning in. "I'm right, aren't I?"

The Italian hurriedly clapped his hand over Antonio's mouth. "Not in front of Lucia, you idiot!"

"She's here?" Antonio peeked around his shoulder into the parlor, and spied a tiny brown-haired girl in a frilly white dress, arranging the flowers in their vases with all the gravity of a young lady. But Chiara and Stefano were nowhere in sight. "Where did her parents go?"

"Out," said Lovino simply, rolling his eyes. "They left her for me to look after. I didn't  _think_ I looked like a kind motherly old woman, but maybe they had their doubts."

"I can see why."

Lovino smacked him and went into the parlor, Antonio following at a distance and rubbing ruefully at his arm. No sooner had the Italian entered than the girl jumped up and ran to him, red roses overflowing from pale arms and curly hair.

"Uncle Lovi, look at me!" She twirled, scattering rose petals everywhere. "Don't I look pretty—hey!"

Lovino pursed his lips and kept her firmly seated on his shoulder so she couldn't run away. "If your Mamma and Papa see you playing around like this, they won't let you in here anymore."

"But I  _like_  flowers!"

"These are for  _display_ ," said Lovino with a groan, and scooped up the roses she had dropped before replacing them. He did, however, spare the ones in Lucia's hair. "If you want I'll take you to pick flowers later, okay?"

"Okay!" The tiny girl laughed, a high cheerful sound. "Do you want flowers too, Uncle Lovi? I have a lot, they're starting to fall out."

"No, that will be  _perfectly unnecessary_ —hey, stop that!" Flowers showered down on him as he shouted, shaking his head wildly to dislodge them. But Lucia kept on with her fun. Desperately he turned to Antonio, his hair already strewn with rose petals. "Antonio,  _help me_!"

But the Spaniard had fallen onto the nearest couch in a fit of laughter.

"Oh— _Dios mio_ , Lovi—you look  _wonderful_! Lucia, you need to make it a wreath, it looks better that way—"

"I am going to  _kill_ you, Antonio, I swear—"

"Not  _kiss_?"

"All right then, let me stick horrible-smelling flowers in  _your_ hair, see how you like  _that_!"

And with roses in hand, he began chasing Antonio around the room, Lucia bouncing on his shoulder and shrieking in glee the whole while. It was a full ten minutes before Antonio was appropriately doused in rose water and petals, and before Lovino had successfully cleaned the flowers out of his hair. Lucia was allowed to go wash her hands in the basin while her uncles attended to the mess in the parlor.

"I smell so nice now," Antonio sighed, sticking a damp petal on Lovino's nose for good measure.

"You're becoming more like a child every day, did you know that?"

"Maybe... but so are you."

Lovino glared. "At least I'm more grown-up than you are."

And as if to prove his point, he caught Antonio's lips swiftly with his own, and didn't let go until Lucia came running back downstairs to check on them.

* * *

The Italian always looked so peacefully handsome when he was working, or focused on things—usually it was both. Now was one of those times. He had not given up his recent penchant for cooking, and so strongly refused to hire a servant that Antonio and the others had at last relented. The kitchen was his own little realm in the house, and he ruled it admirably, turning out the most golden creations every so often.

This time Antonio had returned early enough to help him, and so they stood together near the ovens, quieter without Lucia who had gone to take a nap. The sun shone in through the open window and warmed their hands as they worked in comforting silence.

"You know, maybe it would be better if we moved out," said Lovino suddenly.

Antonio stopped stirring the tomato sauce to look over at him. "What makes you say that?"

"I feel like... everyone's been watching us. And not in the best way." Lovino's hands were still busy at the rolling pin, and he did not look up. He appeared somewhat lost in thought. "You remember how Feli and Chiara were so eager for me to stay. But Feli's had sense enough to move out with his German bast—I mean friend." Antonio hid his smile behind his inspection of a bowl. "I think it's time for us to do that too."

"Where do you want to go? We could just find a house nearby and come back to visit now and then, like your brother does. Besides, Lucia's a cute little thing."

"No," said Lovino, his voice almost strained. "I want to— _move out_. Leave this city. Sail somewhere, maybe."

Antonio stopped short and gazed at him for a long moment. He remembered suddenly—one day long ago when the Italian had been standing by the pots as he was now, hands and apron dusted with flour, watching the food as it cooked. It was all too easy to imagine the walls around them gone, to be replaced by stout wooden ones, and the window to their right a porthole, opening out to the blue, blue sky...

"Shit, Antonio— _I'm sorry_ ," he heard Lovino say, and felt arms around him and the Italian's head resting against his shoulder. "I didn't mean to..."

"We'll do it." The firmness in Antonio's voice surprised even himself. "We'll go. This city is too cramped as it is. We're too far away from the sea. What do you say to Barcelona?"

Lovino stepped back and stared. "You don't really—"

"But why not?" A strange thrill had begun to run through Antonio's veins, as if an instinct suppressed for years had finally reasserted itself. "I rather miss the sea," he said, more softly this time.

For a second Lovino did not reply. Then, impossibly, he smiled.

"We'll tell the others then. How long do you think the voyage would be?"

* * *

Valencia's sea breeze was like a balm in the early mornings, with just a hint of the warmth and freedom he had felt so long ago. There were no clouds in the sky today, and seagulls whirled overhead, making spirals around the mast and settling in among the crow's nest like little children. Their calls echoed across the calm cerulean of the ocean, louder than any man could ever shout.

Lovino was the first to speak.

"I know what you mean now... I'd forgotten about this."

Looking out over the horizon, Antonio took a long breath and let it out slowly before opening his eyes. His smile seemed to come more naturally, words more readily in this lighter air, empty of the noisy oppressive heat of the city they had just left. "I used to dream about being able to do this," he said. "Sailing freely and not having to worry about the consequences."

"Now's not too late to travel around the world." Lovino's voice was light. "You're twenty-nine. There's nothing stopping you anymore."

"I might just do that, now that you mention it. And bring you along too."

The sound of sailors yelling excitedly to each other broke their conversation, and Antonio turned to look. They had just readied the sails; the captain was announcing their intent to set out. In high spirits the men lifted the anchor, the wooden dock and surrounding ships growing smaller, smaller.

The familiar rocking of the ship, set free in the sea, mirrored the beating of Antonio's heart and suddenly he shouted:

"Let's go!"

"What?" Lovino frowned and then raced after him as Antonio darted towards the mast. "What in hell are you doing?"

"Climbing!" The rope ladder leading up to the crow's nest was still leaning against the tall spar. In no time Antonio had reached it. "I'm going up there!" he exclaimed, pointing straight up. "Want to come with me? It'll be great!"

"You're mad!"

Antonio had already taken hold of the ladder and begun climbing, one foot after the other, the ropes rough and familiar on his hands. He had not even reached the fifth rung when he felt the ropes settle below him; Lovino was also following. He paused to allow the Italian to catch up. "Careful, Lovi!"

"Just make sure  _you_ don't send me falling to my death!" Lovino shot back, but his voice had lost all semblance of anger, becoming exhilaration. "You don't need to wait for me,  _go_!"

And they climbed, up and up, higher and higher, the disturbed birds flying around them like dislodged pieces of cloud. The morning wind had turned sharp against Antonio's skin, exposed in his short sleeves, but he barely noticed—for there it was, getting closer and closer, the small circle of the crow's nest. His fingers remembered and welcomed the rope clenched between them, the sensation of the tough, solid strands buoying him towards the top. He had done this hundreds of times; he could do it again. Below he could hear people yelling for them to come down, but they were so far down and did not, could not understand.

He was free, free,  _free_.

The thin wooden surface was just as flimsy as the others he had known, but he had never felt steadier as he stood upon it now. Everything seemed so small, so far away from up here—the sailors and captain like dolls, the sails billowing like little flags, his own worries dissipating with the breeze. And then there was Lovino, appearing right underneath the crow's nest, fingers clutching at the last bit of rope. He accepted Antonio's outstretched hand and before long they were standing together, gazing breathlessly out at the blue, blue sea.

"That was amazing," were the first words out of the Italian's mouth, when he could speak. Antonio grinned.

"I told you."

Lovino looked back in the direction they had come, at the rapidly fading land in the distance.

"And there goes Spain—"

"Look, Lovi!" Antonio was leaning forward, towards some faraway spot ahead of them on the horizon. " _Look_!"

"What? Where?"

" _There_!" There was nothing where the Spaniard was pointing, but Lovino did as he was told, with an excitement Antonio had never before seen on his face.

"What is it?"

"It's us!"

"I can't see," Lovino shouted. "Tell me about it!"

"It's us, I know for sure." Antonio peered at the distant sea, at the spot where the water met sky, where the waves met clouds. "It's us, ten years in the future. We're still together and still sailing, and we're old. But happy. You still look the same, can you see it, Lovi?"

Lovino laughed, a wild free laugh. "I can now!"

Somehow, from where they stood, the ship did seem to be heading towards that one place Antonio had seen, moving forward, parting the waves, leaving the past for the future. But in the crow's nest was the present, the blessed present, and Antonio reached for Lovino's hand and held it tight, their fingers intertwining as they watched the time fly.

There was only one word that could be said, and he shouted it, to the world that lay beyond.

"ONWARD!"

And onward they went, knowing that in that moment, with each other, the future could never be brighter.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
